


Nothing Beside Remains

by Tofutti



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Dreamons, Found Family, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I refuse to tag their real names, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Conflict, Non-Graphic Violence, Not in the traditional sense, Pandora's Vault is so scary man, Recovery, Regret, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dream redemption arc pog???, mostly canon compliant until jan. 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28794831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofutti/pseuds/Tofutti
Summary: Dream is not human, nor is he a dreamon. He's somewhere in between, teetering on the precarious balance point between the two. He has himself under control, though. He knows he has himself under control. Hehasto.It isn't until he's alone that it sinks in. Amid obsidian, dark oak, and the heavy numbness of mining fatigue, he cannot help but think, cannot help but remember. He cannot help but see how far he's fallen.Or: After months spent lost in demon fire, Dream tries to find himself. A series of old friends visit his cell in Pandora's Vault. Slowly, he begins to make amends. The road to forgiveness isn't easy—sometimes it's impossible—but for Dream, it's the only path left.
Relationships: Captain Puffy & Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Dream & Tubbo (Video Blogging RPF), Dream & Wilbur Soot, Past Dream/Fundy (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo & Fundy (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 332





	1. walls

**Author's Note:**

> General disclaimer: C!Dream is an asshole. This fic is not in any way written to excuse or brush off the bad things that C!Dream has done; rather, it is an exploration of how Dream’s character might be viewed differently in context of the Dreamon lore. While this story is centered around Dream and his recovery, it is not intended to excuse what C!Dream has done. With that being said, if I have handled topics such as abuse disrespectfully, please let me know and I will do my best to fix it. I have also tried to distance this story from things like DID as much as possible. In a similar vein to what Ranboo has said, the last thing I want to do is harmfully represent DID. Dream is not two pieces of himself here, he is one singular consciousness that is struggling against itself. If I have done this badly, please tell me how I can improve it. Again, this has been difficult to write. I am open to criticism as long as you're nice about it because my poor heart can't take much.
> 
> Also, I started writing this on the 21st of December and I'm too lazy to edit it to to fit canon, so it's increasingly canon divergent from the Green Festival onwards.
> 
> Fic title is from "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley
> 
> This is about the characters portrayed by these content creators during roleplay, not the content creators themselves!

Looking back, Dream knows he is a fool. 

It’s hard not to see from where he stands: the long trail of hints, tips, obvious little things that should have clued him in. Things he must have picked up on and then immediately dropped in favor of a lie that didn’t sink its claws into his core, that didn’t scathe his insides like water. But here, now, the truth is obvious. Sitting barefoot and maskless on the cold obsidian floor, there is nothing to distract him from the disparate shards of the illusion he built around himself. He’s long since given up on trying to piece it back together. 

He’d started off fine, Dream knows that. The memories from back then, from the beginning, are fuzzy and fragmented at best. Those that brush against his mind, though, are soft and warm and echo with laughter. Yes, he’d started off fine. Maybe he let down his guard. Maybe that’s where he went wrong. It’s hard to recall. 

He leans back against the obsidian with a sigh. The wall of dark oak wood a few layers into the borders of his cell is prickly against the edge of his consciousness. It’s an unnecessary warning, one that’s irritating after so long in the darkness of Pandora’s Vault. Dream may be powerful, but he designed this cell himself. If he tried to escape, he’d never get anywhere close to the dark oak layer. 

He wonders if Wilbur knew just how much trouble he caused. Certainly, Ghostbur doesn’t. If Dream had only just figured it out after all of  _ this _ , Alivebur probably never realized either. 

Dream drops that line of thinking rather quickly. Even Wilbur’s name brings forth writhing, spark-spitting memories. He lets go of his thoughts to press back the sickening stain of his dreamon-ness. He forces the memories of Wilbur, the screams from his core, deep down inside, ignoring the gnawing, nauseous feeling that comes from suppressing half of himself. Staying completely human, keeping the part of him that snapped and bit and stung beneath the surface for so long  _ hurts _ . 

_ It is necessary _ , Dream repeats to himself.  _ It is necessary _ . The sparking energy eats away at his chest as he compresses it and keeps it there. 

Doing this leaves him sluggish and weak. Some days, his thoughts move so slow he forgets he’s there at all, loses himself in the screaming. Today is better; his brain is mostly functional. Today, instead, is a day of fatigue. He can barely move. He’s wracked with chills, and when he holds up the hands he can’t feel, his fingers are trembling. 

This also means it’s a day of clarity. With clarity always comes the screaming, voices of dissent given unnatural strength. Most days are like today. Some are worse, some better.

_ Wilbur is dead _ , he tells himself when he starts screaming again.  _ He’s dead. He’s gone _ . He responds with Tommy’s grinning face, swimming up from the depths of his memories. It crackles with poisonous fire, and the screaming grows louder. Louder. He can’t hold it in, not inside. Even though there’s not a sound in the cell beyond his ragged breathing, he can almost feel his throat shredding itself to pieces with the force of his voice. Tommy’s screechy laughter echoes against his skull in the back of his mind, and that’s what breaks him, scraping along the edge of every frayed nerve. Dream clamps his hands over his ears, ignoring the protest in his muscles. Pain flares white and fuzzy and nothing and his ears are ringing and it’s silent, silent, bright and soft and his human senses are in blessed reprieve and—

“ **_LET ME OUT!_ ** ” He howls, his voice echoing against obsidian. “ **_LET ME OUT!_ ** ” His entire mind is alight and alive and he hasn’t been this awake since the door closed in his face and  _ why, why do I keep me down? _ he asks himself.  _ Why do I do this to myself? _ His body is still shaky and weak but his mind is electrified. His humanity is grasping for control already but it is still pale and thin and ringing with shock so he screams he screams again again again  _ LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT _

Dream gasps for breath, heaving air through his torn throat. “ **_LET ME OUT_ ** —” He cuts himself off, snapping his mouth shut and swallowing hard. He pushes the acid down his throat, down beneath the surface. He’s still screaming the same mantra inside, but in the cool, dusty air of his cell, he’s only gasping for breath, and the electricity that raises the hairs on his arms is st _ atic, it’s static electricity, it’s only static _ . His screams still echo faintly, some ghost of his cries. 

Sam probably heard it, Dream knows. The entire prison has an advanced communications and security system. There’s no way Dream’s every word isn’t audible.  _ Oh, well _ , he thinks.  _ I was about due for an outburst, anyway _ . Sam hears it every time Dream loses control of himself. Sam probably doesn’t know what he actually means when he screams. Sam can’t hear how he’s tearing himself apart.

_ Why? _ asks some scattered fragment of his mind. It’s one of the bits that still rests in the space in between dreamon and human, one that may have been sane at some point.  _ Why am I doing this to myself? _

Dream looks down at his shaking, bloodless hands and remembers the crimson that stained them once, notes how they’re pale and skeletal but blessedly clean. He looks down at his hands and remembers George’s face when he realized he’d been used. He remembers Sapnap’s vicious accusations later that night. Dream looks down at his hands and sees, above a pit of green phantom fire, a tower that scraped the stars. He remembers words once spoken in a lopsided garden, long, long ago. He looks, he sees, he remembers, he realizes. He shoves himself deep into a pocket, binds himself to yet another prison of his own making, forces back the fire’s tide, and suffers.

* * *

Someone’s outside his cell. 

It’s his first visitor since long before he gave up on counting the days, his first visitor since Callahan stopped by the day after the vault door closed for good. Callahan had said nothing, just as he always does. His stare through the visitor’s window was empty, his hands still. Dream couldn’t do much more, at that point, than stare back, still limp and shaking and half-dead from the day before. 

“Hello?” Tubbo’s voice is warbly and unsure over the intercom. “Dream? Are—are you there?”

It’s also the first time he’s heard someone else speak since Technoblade left him half-conscious at Sam’s feet, he realizes abruptly. Dream can’t bring himself to care, not when half the people on the SMP could send lime-green bile burning up his throat at a word.

Dream sucks in a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around himself. He doesn’t know why Tubbo of all people is here to see him, and he isn’t sure he wants to find out. He’s grateful, at least, that it isn’t Sapnap. Or George. Or Tommy. He isn’t sure what he would have done if it had been Tommy outside his cell. 

“Okay, well—I’m going to open the window now, alright, Dream?” The intercom shuts off with a crackle. Seconds later, the tiny visitor’s window slides open with a clank, and Dream looks up to meet Tubbo’s wide eyes. He’s not in uniform, a fact at which some part of him is relieved. The boy looks surprised; whether it’s at his dull stare or his huddled, thin form, Dream can’t be sure. Maybe both. Probably both. 

“...Hey, Dream,” Tubbo starts, voice careful, like he’s touching glass or speaking to a feral animal.

“What do you want?” Dream rasps. His voice is scratchy and nearly inaudible. Tubbo seems to hear him, though, taking in his words with a considering frown. 

“I just…” Tubbo looks down, tracing patterns on the window’s breath-fogged, hole-speckled glass. “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Dream laughs at that, the sound barely anything more than a huff of air. “What do you think?” 

“Sam has been…” Tubbo trails off once more, eyes darting to the side, probably glancing at a security camera or something of the sort. “ _ feeding  _ you, right?” 

He almost smiles. Letting his head fall back to rest against the wall to his back, he drops his hands into his lap. “Yes, Tubbo,” he whispers. “Sam has been feeding me.” 

“Really? You’re getting enough to eat?”

“What are you doing here?” Dream runs his hand down his face. Tubbo’s gaze is burning into him, and he feels exposed without his mask. 

Tubbo says nothing for a moment. He stands at the window, silent, considering. 

Then: “Why?”

Dream sits back up, staring at the kid. “Sorry?”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Tubbo asks. His voice has gone quiet. His eyebrows are drawn together, and he looks down at Dream almost pleadingly. 

Dream chuckles. “What are you talking about?” His finger traces lazy circles against the side of his leg. Fire crackles just below his skin. He can feel it surfacing in the dryness of his tone and he forces it back down, drenching it in his overwhelming apathy. “It’s not like I’m here by choice.” It even tastes like a lie.

“No,” Tubbo says. “You know what I mean.”

He does. 

“Why do you care,  _ Dreamon Hunter _ ?” There are sparks flickering at his tongue as Tubbo presses and pokes and prods at things Dream doesn’t like to think about, so he bites down on it hard until he can taste iron. His stomach  _ aches _ . He tries again, gentler. “Tubbo, just— tell me why you’re here or leave, okay? Please.” 

“I—” Tubbo’s eyes are wide. “You just did it  _ again _ , Dream, I  _ saw _ you—”

Dream cuts him off with a tired, tired glare, and Tubbo stops. Falls silent. Goes still. Gives up. Dream can see it happen, real-time. Tubbo turns away, about to slide the window shut. He glances back one last time.

The sorrowful, helpless something is back on Tubbo’s face, clearer than most things in prison. Dream still can’t decipher it, can’t figure out why he’s receiving anything more than hatred from this child whose closest friend he’d almost murdered three times. 

Then, the window clacks shut. Tubbo is gone. Dream surrenders himself to the screaming inside him once more, to the absolute, unbreakable silence of Pandora’s Vault.

* * *

Tubbo knew the truth of the situation from the start, supposedly. He’s got all the details, has had all the details longer than anyone else on the server. Still, it takes him an embarrassing two months after Dream’s imprisonment to figure out the implications of what he knows. 

He wasn’t lying when he told Fundy he’d been in the dreamon hunting biz for a while. His apprenticeship had been brief but rigorous and left him more knowledgeable about the creatures than most other things. He figured he’d probably never use most of what he knew, the details being obscure and situationally dependent. Of course, he hadn’t expected to end up on a server with an off-the-rails half-dreamon admin. Now that he’s here, though, he’s prepared. He knows what he’s doing. Tubbo likes to know what he’s doing, likes a clear path of action. Once he has that, he’s good at getting stuff done. 

Getting stuff done is how he finds himself outside Fundy’s half-wrecked L’manberg house one morning, exactly two months after Dream’s capture. April 16th is a sunny day, the lake-crater glittering and shimmering in the breeze. Everyone’s still working on repairs. With almost a month having been spent by most in the now-expanded community house, the once-again-ruins of L’manberg remained just that for far longer than expected. That being said, rebuilding thus far has been swift and efficient under Ranboo’s leadership. Despite L’manberg’s government’s current nonexistence, Ranboo has stepped up to guide the recovery efforts as an honorary president-of-sorts. Tubbo is, quite honestly, relieved.

Fundy’s house was wonky to begin with and stood odd against the skyline even before New L’manberg went to hell. As he rebuilds, he adds oddity upon oddity. The entire left side of the second floor is still a gaping hole. Fundy himself is dangling off a portion of the roof, desperately trying to scramble back up. 

“Fundy!” Tubbo shouts. Fundy gives a squawk and loses his grip. There’s maybe a foot’s distance between his dangling feet and the ledge he lands on, so Tubbo doesn’t feel too much remorse. 

Fundy glances down, quickly spotting Tubbo waiting on the walkway below. “What is it, Tubbo?” he calls back, picking himself back up and brushing off his jacket. “I’m kind of a little bit busy here!” 

“I need to talk to you!” Tubbo grins. “Come and meet me!”

Huffing, Fundy slips back inside through an empty window frame, and Tubbo makes his way over to the front step. It isn’t long before Fundy is there, opening the door. Up close, Tubbo can see he’s covered in sawdust, a thick layer clotted in his fur. 

“You, uh—” Tubbo stifles a laugh. “You doing alright there, big guy? You’ve got a little… um.”

Fundy sighs. “What did you need?” 

“I wanted to talk to you!” He slips past Fundy and into the house, sitting down on one of his chests. “There’s something important I’ve just realized and I wanted to hear your thoughts on it.”

“Just invite yourself in,” Fundy mutters under his breath, slumping into a nearby chair. Fundy’s interior is no more organized than the rest of his house; the chair has no business being where it is. Tubbo ignores him.

“So Dream’s half dreamon, right?” he starts. 

“Yeah?” Fundy narrows his eyes. Everyone on the server knows Dream is a transmuted dreamon, but people rarely bring him up. Even now, two months later, Tubbo supposes, the shock of it all is a little much.

“We never figured out why he went all crazy,” Tubbo says. “Remember, Callahan, George, everyone who’s known him for a long time says how he was behaving during more recent times on the SMP is completely out of character! Like, it can’t just be that he’s a dreamon. He got crazy all of a sudden, out of nowhere, and I was just thinking...” 

Fundy sighs, catching onto the direction Tubbo’s edging in. “People change, Tubbo. Do you really need to know why it happened? Can’t we just move on?”

“No, no, wait, listen!” Tubbo leans forward, gaze intent. “This turnaround was out of the blue! It seems to have happened a bit after L’manberg started up.  _ L’manberg _ . At first, it was just for fun, and then he got all intense out of  _ nowhere! _ ” Tubbo pauses. “Not that we weren’t escalating it, too, but that’s a different story.” 

“Tubbo…” Fundy’s voice is a warning. “Where are you going with this?”

“I say we visit him, Fundy!”

“ _ WHAT? _ ” Fundy’s flinch is full-bodied; he almost falls out of his chair.

“—or maybe just me, first, so he doesn’t get all defensive or overwhelmed or whatever, and we see if we can—”

“Are you  _ crazy _ ?” Fundy is shouting now, on his feet. 

Tubbo expected shock, fear, anger maybe, but nothing to this degree. He shrugs. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Tubbo—what do you—” Fundy yanks on his ears, pulling them down along his face. “What do you  _ mean _ , a little bit? He is the most dangerous being you’ll probably  _ ever  _ meet! We put him in the Vault for a reason! Do not go and  _ visit him _ !”

“No, really, Fundy,” Tubbo tries. “I think we could learn quite a lot—”

“ _ No _ , Tubbo!” Fundy says, walking over to stand in front of Tubbo. “My answer is no. I will not come with you. And I sincerely hope that you don’t go through with this on your own.” He pulls Tubbo up off the chest by his arm. Tubbo forces back a flinch at the handling as Fundy walks him over to the door, eyes flicking side to side like Dream could be listening somehow. He pushes him onto the porch, barely daring to do anything more himself than stick his head around the doorframe. “You could  _ die _ , Tubbo. Please, think about that.” And he closes the door in Tubbo’s face. 

“Well,” Tubbo says to himself. “That went well.”

In the days that follow, Tubbo  _ does  _ think about it. Quite a lot, actually, once he leaves Fundy’s place. Especially once he’s turned in for the night. The possibility of death is vivid to him after what happened two months ago, after how close he came to his third and final death. Despite all this thinking, though, Tubbo has never been one to give up on curiosities, especially not curiosities that fall into one of his areas of expertise. 

Tubbo visits the Vault the next day. When he returns, he feels shaken, slightly ill, and very, very curious indeed.

* * *

“You know, Technoblade,” Tubbo comments one lazy afternoon not long after. “I do reckon I’ve figured something out.”

The two are sitting in Tubbo’s rooftop garden, a project he’s been working on for a few weeks. Techno had been waiting downstairs for Tommy to wrench himself out of bed and down the stairs so they could go off and do  _ something  _ together (Tubbo wasn’t sure of the details) for a solid five minutes before Tubbo offered him tea. Techno accepted, and they went out to Tubbo’s garden because the kitchen is in questionable shape at the moment and certainly not fit for tea with guests. Tubbo told Techno not to ask. Techno didn’t ask.

Things are still a little awkward between the two of them, ever since Tubbo had tried to publicly execute him and placed Philza under house arrest. Really, it was ever since the Manberg Festival. After… well, February, however, each discovered how talented they were at ignoring how awkward the situation was for Tommy’s sake. Things had gotten better between them since, as they’d had a few serious conversations and came to some vital understandings, and Tubbo felt confident enough that Techno was a safe confidante. 

Not that Tommy wasn’t a safe confidante. Tubbo thought it best not to involve Tommy in this particular investigation. 

“Oh, yeah?” Technoblade says. “What did you figure out?”

“Well, I think I know what’s wrong with Dream,” Tubbo leans back in his chair.

Techno huffs. “Yeah, me too.” He sets his tea on the side table. “I could list a few things, actually.”

“No, no, I mean—” Tubbo struggles for the right words. “Yeah, he’s an absolute arse. But I think I figured out  _ why _ .”

Techno hums. “Go on.”

“So. He’s a transmuted dreamon, right?” Tubbo takes a sip of his tea. “Normally, that species has a sort of blend of human and dreamon behavior. Some of them are a lot more balanced than others, and certain situations may influence them to act a certain way.” 

Techno hums in acknowledgment, picking his cup back up and taking another sip.

“The interesting thing is: by all accounts, until recently, Dream has always been incredibly balanced.” Tubbo watches a bee land on the allium that’s planted next to his chair. “So the question is: what changed?”

Techno hums again. “And what have you found?”

“Well,” Tubbo says. “I visited him the other day.”

Techno raises his eyebrows. 

“I did, I did! Anyway, I’m still not sure exactly how it happened, but I think his dreamon-ness got really out of control for a really long time. When I went to visit him, he looked  _ awful _ , Mr. Blade. I mean,  _ awful _ .” Tubbo takes another sip of tea. “Pretty sure he’s completely suppressing everything that makes him a dreamon right now. That’s obviously not a healthy thing to do, splitting yourself down the middle like that.” 

Tubbo stares down into his steamy mug of chamomile, suddenly hesitant. “I—I’m not saying we just… forget what he did,” he says, acutely aware of how much Technoblade hates Dream for what happened to Tommy. “But I think… we should help him. If we can. Maybe we can put him back to how he was before any of this.”

He looks over at Techno, trying to gauge his reaction. The man’s face is completely impassive as he stares out over L’manberg, and Tubbo feels his stomach twist with nerves. “Does that make sense?”

After a long, long moment, Technoblade sighs. “I think it’s worth a shot.”


	2. grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My predictions are like, 40% canon. I'm basically a prophet now. Y'all had better user sub /s  
> also there may be a canon design for the prison's interior now but do I look like I care?

Technoblade’s voice coming over the intercom is Dream’s next  _ pleasant  _ surprise. 

“Tubbo tells me you’ve been hearin’ voices,” he says, and Dream nearly jumps out of his skin. The last time he heard Technoblade speak had been-

_ “I did say I believe in absolute reciprocity, Dream,” came  _ his  _ voice somewhere above. Everything everything everything everything  _ hurts _ \- “I am a man of my-” _

The visitor’s window clacks open, and Dream jolts. Technoblade’s red eyes are on his, and he’s cold, and he’s ice, and he’s  _ bleeding out on the ground watching the blackstone scroll by recognizing the path they’re taking not being able to say a word- _

“Dream?” Techno raises an eyebrow. “You doing okay?” 

“Why are you here?” Dream chokes out. Every part of him is united in a clamoring mess, and he can barely get the words out.

“Just thought I’d stop by.”  _ Bullshit _ . 

Dream grits his teeth. “Tubbo is an idiot,” he hisses, ignoring the sparks at the back of his throat. 

Techno only hums, dropping out of view of the window. If Dream had to guess, he’s sat down against the wall, in the same position Dream has stayed in since he dragged himself to the back of his cell on his second day. “I figured havin’ someone to talk to might help,” he says. “Just a guess, y’know. Not based on personal experience or anything.” 

Conversation  _ does _ help, however much Dream loathes admitting it. If it weren’t for all the poking and prodding and unasked, unanswerable questions, Tubbo’s visit would have been the clearest his head was in weeks. 

“Why the  _ fuck _ do you care?” Dream rasps, noticing the flare of energy, of anger, a little too late to squash it. “I thought you wanted me to rot.” 

His hair is sticking up again. He knows his eyes are probably glowing, this time not hidden by his mask, and he tamps down the panic, pushes down the rage, wills them desperately to go flat again, human again. Techno doesn’t seem to take notice. He’s not looking through the window. 

“That is a fair statement, yes,” Techno says. “You traumatized and manipulated my younger brother, so I hunted you down and caught you and handed you over to Awesamdude. That happened.” 

Dream could be a hypocrite. He could call out all of the things Techno’s ever done to Tommy. He only shudders, hugging himself tighter.

“Do you want a history lesson, Dream?” Techno says. “Reciprocity was one of the core ideals of the Ancient Greeks. It was something they lived by. Mutual exchange, mutual benefit, was the cornerstone of their trade. Homeric Greece didn’t actually have an organized system of trade, so the people-”

“Technoblade,” he interrupts. “Why are you here?” 

“-my point is, the Greeks had this thing called deferred reciprocity. That’s the idea that, if you give someone something they can’t pay you back for, they’ll help you out at some point in the future.” Technoblade stands, then, staring down at Dream through the visitor’s window. “Maybe you never get out of here. Actually, you probably won’t, and honestly, I’d be completely okay with that.” He smiles, then. It isn’t quite warm, but it isn’t cold, either. “But maybe you do. Who knows what’ll happen. In that case, just think of this visit as deferred reciprocity.” He snorts. “That is, if it’s so hard for you to believe I’m not just here to be helpful.”

For a long moment, Dream stares up at Techno, eyebrows raised. Then, he sighs.

“Tubbo put you up to this, didn’t he.”

Technoblade laughs, long and loud. “Yeah.” He sits back down, leaned against the wall. “He totally did.”

They sit in silence for a while. There’s a half-smile on Dream’s face. Techno was right. He still feels sick to the stomach for it, but the flames at his core are silent, at least. 

“Does that upset you?” Techno asks finally. “That Tubbo sent me?”

Dream hums, considering. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

Techno hums back, then starts whistling. Dream doesn’t know the song, but it sounds familiar, somehow. Maybe it was one of Alivebur’s. 

It’s a few minutes before Techno stops whistling. He stands up, gives Dream a nod, and slides the window shut, and is gone.

Moments later, Dream realizes he still feels light. His mind has stayed a little quieter. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. He knows Technoblade can’t have heard him. Maybe that’s why he says it.

* * *

It’s late, Tubbo knows. 

Tommy stopped moving around in his room a long time ago. The streets of L’manberg, a dimly-lit expanse through his open window, are empty. The hour has not helped his ability to make out the words that scrawl their crooked way across the textbook page, and he has to squint, struggling to pin down each letter in the lantern’s flickering light. If Tommy knew he was up he’d probably wrestle him to bed. The thought sinks into the back of his mind, a gentle tug at him to lie down. 

Tubbo grits his teeth, turning the page. He has to be wrong. He has to be. He  _ is _ . He is wrong. There is no way he’s right-

He sits back in his chair with a groan, rubbing his eyes. Tugging his mind out of the tangential web it had fallen into, he wrenches his attention back to the book.  _ Keep reading _ , he tells himself.  _ Just a few more pages. Just until I find what I’m looking for.  _ It’s in this chapter, he’s sure of it. Real evidence, just around the corner, written out in bedrock-hard print. 

There’s a diagram of a human brain, depicting the physical effects of long-term dreamon possession. He is in the wrong chapter, actually, maybe. He’d better read this one through to be sure, though, first. Wouldn’t want to miss anything. Wouldn’t want to forget. Tubbo turns the page. 

He picked up the textbook on a whim shortly after lunch. It really is an old book; he’s had it on him since he parted ways with the hunter he learned from. The Captain, he called himself. Captain Sparklez if you were being formal; Jordan if you knew him well. It’s from Jordan that Tubbo learned about dreamons: how to keep an eye out for them, how to interact with them, how to subdue them if they got out of control. It’s also from Jordan that Tubbo learned to look for loopholes in the code that the world is built on, among other things, like what it meant to trust someone. Since he last saw his old mentor, Tubbo has moved several times, has been through multiple wars, and has had his house burnt down twice. Somehow, he still has the textbook. 

He pulled it off the shelf in search of information on Dream. His visit was enlightening, but he still has questions, things he wants answered, and he hasn’t read over any of his notes or anything in a few years. Maybe he’s just forgetting some of the details. Maybe he needs clarification on how something works. 

Tubbo almost wishes he’d never picked the textbook up. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be up at death o’clock looking for something to tell him he’s wrong, to tell him what he read a few chapters back isn’t what happened to Dream, isn’t how it went down, isn’t a real thing at all.

If he wakes up to sunlight with his nose pressed into a passage about dreamon-human relations through the ages, if he thanks Prime Tommy didn’t find him passed out at his desk, if the lantern is completely burnt out and his bed still made from the day before, it’s okay. It’s fine. 

If he didn’t find anything to prove him wrong, it’s fine. He’ll just try again.

* * *

“Your theory seems to check out so far.” 

Tubbo finds Technoblade in the potato field behind L’manberg a few hours into a clear-skied night. He has no clue how long the man’s been at it, but he’s covered in muck and there’s a veritable mountain of spuds spilling out of a double chest nearby. 

Techno leans against his hoe, taking a swig of water from the flask clipped to his belt. “I stopped by the Vault the other day. Everything you said lines up. When I mentioned voices, he didn’t explicitly deny it.”

Tubbo hums, sitting down in the grass next to the field. “Did you find anything else?”

Technoblade snorts, swinging his hoe back up and sinking it deep into the earth. “He looks awful.”

“Yeah, well-” Tubbo scoffs, ignoring the twist in his stomach. “I know  _ that _ .”

“Other than that? No, not much.” He moves his hoe through the dirt in a long, repeated pattern, and Tubbo watches him half-hypnotized. “He seemed kinda nice, actually. Almost like when I met him  _ before _ . If he wasn’t in a prison cell I’d have thought he was a pretty cool dude.” Techno pauses his work to spare his comms a passing glance. “Definitely quiet, though. Quieter than I’ve ever seen him. I didn’t try, but I don’t think I’d be able to rile him up very easily. He snapped at me a little, but it wasn’t…” he trailed off. “It wasn’t the same.

“Anyway.” Techno stows his hoe, picking up one of the bags of potatoes. “I’ve got to go; Ghostbur is messaging me.” He waves to Tubbo as he leaves the field, his hulking form disappearing over the top of the ridge. 

Tubbo stays where he sits for a while after, staring up at the stars. Anxiety buzzes through him, inevitably leading his thoughts back to the half-read textbook on his desk.

It isn’t until Ghostbur stops by a while later that he manages to calm down. He’s brought his guitar, and Tubbo falls asleep to the sound of his dead friend’s music.

* * *

“I’m probably leaving soon,” Ghostbur says when he inexplicably shows up inside Dream’s cell the next day. “I thought you might want to know.”

Dream jolts when the ghost’s form appears, the fastest he’s probably moved in days. He sighs when he sees who it is. Something in him starts screaming for blood, for revenge, for an advantage to press, even months after L’manberg’s destruction.

“What do you want?” Dream whispers.

“Just to tell you, that’s all.” Ghostbur shrugs. “I’ll be moving on. I can feel it. I am dead, you know, and dead people are supposed to leave, find a new path, once they’ve tied all the pieces of their life into the best bow they can manage.”

Dream feels like he’s dead most days. He’s not sure he even has any string left with which to tie a knot, though. Just scattered memories and the occasional ghost. 

“Are you alright?” Ghostbur’s concerned face is right in front of Dream’s own. “Here, you seem very sad. Have some blue.” 

Dream glances up at the camera, but the intercom stays silent. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes the translucent material from Ghostbur’s hands. 

It fills instantly, ugly slate blue swarming through it in thick clouds, dripping globby and thick out the bottom. Panic sprouts in Dream’s chest as the odd liquid runs over his fingers in rivulets; he holds the blue out away from him like it’s poisonous. 

_ Why- why- why- it’s never done this before what- _

Ghostbur gives a concerned hum. “That’s a lot of blue!” he says. Dream glances up at him; each breath is shaky and pained. The sparks are gnawing at the back of his mind. “Here, let me just…”

Ghostbur gently takes the used blue from his hands, tucking it away somewhere. As soon as it leaves his hands, something in Dream’s heart seems to crumple. He’s blinking away tears before he knows it, struggling to see out of blurry eyes. His breath hitches and he lets out a sob.

“Here,” Ghostbur is saying, “here,” and there’s something in his hands and it hurts a little less and then there are cold, half-there arms around him and Dream sits stiff and still and cries as the ghost of the man he hated hugs him and everything in him is screaming but there’s something dripping from the blue he holds in his hands and it  _ aches _ .  _ He  _ aches like he hasn’t let himself in months. 

“Oh, dear,” Ghostbur whispers as he sobs. “Oh, dear. I haven’t seen this much blue since Tommy got all homesick on vacation. Wasn’t that because he couldn’t leave? Tubbo told me you can’t leave right now. Are you alright, Dream?”

The stab of pain that comes from hearing that is enough to shock the fire into motion. “I thought you were scared of me,” he manages. Waterlogged and hiccough-filled, it didn’t have quite the effect he’d been hoping for. 

Instead of responding, Ghostbur pulls away a bit, holding Dream against his side with one arm and using the other to pull the blue out of his hand. Dream’s vision has cleared enough that he can see, can see the murky color that drips in globs from the material. 

Ghostbur hums. “It’s all ugly and greyish,” he says. “Just like mine.” He squeezes it in his fist, and more viscous color slides out of it and down Ghostbur’s hand. 

“Huh?” Dream leans into his embrace. Everything hurts. 

“So grey and guilty…” he muses. He squeezes the blue again. “And so thick, too…” He huffs. “I’ll be sure to leave you extra.”

“...What do you mean…?” 

Ghostbur smiles. It’s a sad thing. In fact, this might be the first time Dream’s ever seen Ghostbur look sad. “Just like mine,” he mutters. “You know, you should really get some sleep, Dream. You look exhausted.”

Dream is always exhausted these days, hardly letting himself sleep, but Ghostbur is right. He feels uniquely drained. Leaning into the phantom’s foggy touch, he closes his eyes. 

Even considering how awful his neck is bound to feel when he wakes up, it’s a nice way to fall asleep.

* * *

_ She’s waiting for him when he walks through the door. She doesn’t give any notice to the blood running down his face, staining his jacket, doesn’t ask whether or not it’s his, only holds her stance: arms crossed, eyes stony cold.  _

_ Closing the door, he turns to face her. She tilts her head at him as if expecting an explanation for a question she’s never asked. He knows what she wants to hear.  _

_ “It’s not mine,” he says instead, pulling his ruined hoodie over his head, “mostly.” _

_ He looks up at her. She is silent, glare ever sharpening.  _

_ “I did hit my head pretty hard,” he comments. “Might have a concussion.” _

_ That sends her over the edge. “What the hell, Dream?” Her cold stare snaps into a sharp-edged snarl, and he flinches back. “What are you doing? What has gotten into you?” _

_ He holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re-” _

_ “Yes, you do!” She jabs a finger at his chest. “Don’t fucking lie to me!” Her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, and he almost screams. Something he can’t recognize- fear? regret? pain?- has knocked his heart out of place, and his head swims with vertigo. He drops the hoodie. _

_ “Hey, hey,” he soothes, grabbing her arms with both hands and staring into her eyes. “What do you mean? I would never lie to you. You’re my-” _

_ “Don’t  _ touch  _ me!” She pulls herself out of his grip, chest heaving. “ _ Don’t.  _ Don’t try to convince me I’m the one who’s wrong here. It’s not going to work. Just tell me.” She swallows. “Please. So I can help you.” _

_ He snorts, leaning down to pick the hoodie back up and fold it into a ball. “Help? Why would I need your help?” Derision drips from each word. “You’re  _ weak _ , compared to me. Not even a halfling. You might as well just be human.” _

_ As he speaks, her eyes grow wider and wider, face paling. “Dream,” she says, voice wavering. “Take off your mask.” _

_ “...My mask?” He puts a hand to it, feeling the cold porcelain. “Why?” _

_ “Just…” She swallows. “Just do it.” _

_ He pushes his mask to the side. She gasps, stumbling back. Horrified. At him. Horrified at what he’s become, at what he’s done- _

_ The floor is gone and he falls, falls, screams swallowed by the infinity of the void. “What is wrong with you?” she screams. “What have you done? How could you ruin this? He’s dead because of you. They are dead. You killed them. How dare you lose control? Everything you built is gone because of you! She isn’t even here. She left and it’s your fault. How can you fucking live with yourself?” _

_ Everything is a mass of staticky stars, swimming and swirling and he’s falling, falling, falling still, cold rushing past his face, numbing his ears, biting away at his heart, drowning in a sea of nothing.  _

_ “I don’t know how you thought it could ever work,” she says as everything fades. “It was foolish of you to even try. It was always going to happen like this.” _

* * *

Dream wakes, shivering, sweating, alone, and remembers why he doesn’t sleep very much anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream used techno's first favor when techno elected to not murder him a second and final time


	3. visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe dream is in de walls   
> Chapter warning for some brief and mild body horror

Fundy practically kicks down the door one day, barreling into the front room while Tubbo and Tommy are having breakfast. Tubbo almost drops the bowl he’s holding when the crash echoes through the house. He sets it down on the counter and motions a pale Tommy to stay put, picking up his iron sword from where it leans against his chair.

“TUBBO!” Fundy’s strangled shout echoes through the house a moment later. Tubbo sighs, puts the sword back down, and makes his way to the entryway. 

Fundy is standing in the doorway when he gets there, easing the door shut. He looks harried, his tail puffed up and ears lain flat against his head. The fox whirls around at the sound of his footsteps, anxious eyes locking onto his. 

“Tubbo!” Fundy cries, rushing forward and latching onto him. “What in Prime’s name were you thinking?”

Tubbo pulls back, realizing what this visit was about. He huffs. “Jeez, Fundy. You had me scared there for a minute; I thought something happened.”

“ _ Tubbo _ !” Fundy grabs him by the shoulders. “ _ Yes _ , something happened! What happened is you went ahead and—”

Tubbo grabs Fundy’s snout, forcing his jaw shut before he can finish his sentence. Shooting a glance in the direction of the kitchen, he shouts, “We’ll be on the porch, Tommy! I’ll be back in a bit!”

After a moment—“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, we’re fine!” Tubbo calls back, wrenching open the front door and letting Fundy through, slipping out after him. He latches the door and turns with a sigh. Fundy sits on one of the deck chairs, tapping an anxious rhythm on the arm. His face lights up in a scowl.

“Will told me what you did. I thought I told you it was a  _ bad idea,  _ Tubbo!” Fundy says as Tubbo sits down across from him. “What the hell happened?” 

Tubbo sighs. “I figured some things out, Fundy,” he says. “I was right. And there’s more.” He clenches his hands into fists, glancing out at the street. “Stuff I probably shouldn’t mention… here.”

Fundy lets out an exasperated groan. “Tubbo, you could have gotten  _ killed _ ! You’re on your  _ last fucking life! _ ”

“Well then, why didn’t you go?” Tubbo throws his hands into the air. “Really, Fundy, I’m starting to feel a little underestimated. I can take care of myself! I’m- I’m an  _ experienced  _ Dreamon Hunter!”

Fundy balks. “...oh,” he says. “Sorry. I guess I am being a little—I’m just…” He runs his paw down his face. “I’m just worried.”

“Dream won’t hurt me,” Tubbo assures him, and Fundy looks at him like he’s said to dig straight down. “No, really! He won’t let himself, I’m sure of it. He’s in really bad shape right now, Fundy.”

“Really?” Fundy’s ear flicks. “How so?”

“Not here,” Tubbo says. “Not now.” 

“Yes. Right.” He sits up straight like he’s trying to act normal for anyone who might be watching. 

“If you really want to hear, if you want to get involved in this…” Tubbo hesitates, thinking. “...Meet me at the old hunters’ camp tonight. Midnight. Not that this is like, a super-secret or anything, I just think that for now, the fewer people involved, the better.” 

“Of course, of course.” Fundy takes a deep breath. “Should I come in uniform?”

Tubbo grins, taking that as his invitation accepted. “Sure, if you want,” he says. “It could be nice to be back in—back in the  _ old threads _ , if you will.”

“Okay.” Fundy stands, wringing his paws together. “Okay. I’ll… see you then, I guess.”

“Yeah!” Tubbo waves, getting up. 

“Okay!” Fundy backs down the porch steps. “Bye!”

Tubbo waves until the fox is gone. Then, he slips back inside, out of view of the empty street, and breathes. In, out.

_ It’s okay, Tubbo,  _ he tells himself.  _ You’re probably wrong, anyway. _

**\---**

The campsite is quiet and dark when Tubbo arrives that night. Shadows swamp the tattered tents, most of the makeshift ones from February in pieces on the ground. The clearing is outlined in thin, breathless moonlight. There’s a warm glow coming from the main tent, torchlight seeping out from its green tent flaps. Tubbo makes his way over, ducking inside. 

Sitting inside, Fundy feeds a crackling fire in the firepit. He looks up when Tubbo enters. 

“Tubbo!” he says. “There you are!” 

“Sorry I’m late.” He sits down across from Fundy. “I had to sneak out, and I’m pretty sure I almost woke up Tommy.” He laughs. “He just rolled over, though, thank Prime! I thought I was gonna have to explain all of this!” He motions to his getup, and Fundy grins. 

“Well, I think you look great,” he says. 

“Thank you! You as well, Fundy!”

“So.” Sobering, Fundy pins Tubbo with a weighty stare. “You were going to tell me what’s going on.”

Tubbo tugs at the collar of his coat, uncomfortable. The uniform feels weighty, constricting, somehow. It’s odd; he doesn’t even feel like he’s fit to wear the thing. “Yeah, I was.”

Then, taking a deep breath, he speaks. “So I had a theory,” he begins. “I think I told you I wanted to figure out why Dream got all crazy so suddenly, right?”

Fundy nods.

“Yeah. Now, I don’t know if you know this-” he leans in, as if to confide some sordid secret- “but transmuted dreamons aren’t meant to be half-and-half, not really.”

Fundy tilts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean? Isn’t that kinda… the definition?”

“Okay. Sure, they’re half-dreamon, half-human. But the halves aren’t meant to be separate. Usually, they’re meshed, one big person. Some of them are more volatile than others, of course, but they can’t tell one part of themself from the other.” Tubbo takes a deep breath. Lets it out. “I’ve been reading my old textbooks, pulling all the information I’d forgotten. I was missing… a lot. I should have done it sooner, really. It’s just-” he runs his hand through his hair, nearly dislodging his cap. “It’s so difficult for me, Fundy! Those books use so many huge words, and it’s awful.”

“That is completely understandable,” Fundy says. “I could come by and help sometime, maybe?”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Tubbo laughs. “I’m nearly done, anyway. You wanna know what I figured out? Something must have happened to Dream, to provoke him. His dreamon half got overpowering and he went out of control. L’manberg’s rebellion is probably why he snapped. I don’t know…” he trails off. “I don’t know why he never re-balanced. Usually they re-balance. They’re supposed to. Something must have happened.”

“So, the reason he did all of that—the reason he fucked everything up—was because he went messed in the head?” Fundy’s gaze is dark and weighted. For a moment, Tubbo is unnerved. Abruptly, he’s reminded of a moment shared on the docks shortly after L’manberg evacuated to the hunters’ camp, of an engagement ring hurled out to sea, and he understands.

“Hmm,” Tubbo hums, “you  _ could _ say that. It might be closer to just—he lost himself.”

“Could he—hypothetically—be fixed?” Fundy asks. 

Tubbo stuffs his sweaty hands into his lap. “I dunno. Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

Really, he doubts it. A lot of damage has been done, damage that isn’t easily fixed. Dream doesn’t trust himself anymore, and his halves are unstable, maybe permanently. He should probably tell Fundy that, so that he doesn’t get his hopes up about saving his fiancé. 

“Right now,” he says instead, “Dream has completely suppressed his dreamon half, which is very unhealthy. Not exerting any of the overwhelming amount of power in his body has been… bad for his physical health, not to mention his brain is basically split in half right now. I’m willing to bet he figured out what happened with…” Tubbo motions to the tattered tent around them, “everything, and freaked out. That’s why I said he wouldn’t hurt me. He won’t let himself.” 

“Sure, he won’t.” Fundy sighs. “Tubbo, why do you even want to help him?” He rests his chin on his hands and stares into the fire. “He’s hurt you so many times. He’s hurt  _ everyone _ .”

Tubbo says, “I’m just curious, I guess. I want to see if I can. Plus, I guess feel like since it might have been L’manberg’s fault he went all unstable anyway…”

“It’s not our fault,” Fundy says, looking up suddenly. “You can’t blame L’manberg for Dream’s actions.”

“No, no, I know that.” Tubbo chuckles, holding up his hands. “I’m not saying we should. I just feel like I should try to help him if I can.”

“Just for the sake of it.”

“Just for the sake of it.” Tubbo nods. “Besides, you can’t say this isn’t interesting, at least.”

“...You know what? Sure.” Fundy sighs, bracing his hands against his knees. “Fine. That’s fair. I’ll help you. You know I don’t really want to see him right now, but I’d like it even less if you got yourself killed without me.”

Tubbo takes Fundy’s paw, making eye contact. “Thank you, Fundy,” he says. “Really.”

Fundy laughs a little, looking away but gripping Tubbo’s hand tighter. “Do you have any ideas on how to fix him?”

“For now?” he says. “Just visiting him is probably a good idea. I dunno. I don’t think anyone has really been visiting.”

“Does Sam know?”

“Only what he’s seen over the security feeds,” Tubbo says. “So, no. Not really.”

“...Okay.” Fundy sighs. “Okay. We can do this. I’ll visit him, you’ll visit him, we’ll see where to go from there. I’ll find you if something happens.” 

“Yeah, definitely.” Tubbo waves him off. “See you around.”

Fundy slips out of the tent, leaving Tubbo to sit alone. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out, grasping at his swarming thoughts in some futile attempt to gather them. He'll go home in a minute. Just a minute.

* * *

The night is cold, biting with pricking teeth against his cheeks. Tommy runs, feet hitting against hard-packed dirt, ripping through tangled grass. Each step sends needles up his leg.

He grits his teeth.  _ What if he sees me? _ Pushing himself to go further, faster, to hunch closer to the ground he gasps for air, lungs wheezing and raw. 

Everything he’d overheard pointed him in this direction. Tommy isn’t sure what prompted him to listen, what prompted him to follow Tubbo out of the house, but now he’s heard. Now he knows. He  _ has  _ to know.

He’s probably safe to stop. There’s no way Tubbo would stray this far from the path.  _ But what if he does? _ his mind screeches.  _ What if he comes here too, just to check? What if he finds me?  _ The voice is familiar, though Tommy hasn’t heard it in months. He runs faster.

It’s not until the hulking shadow of Pandora’s Vault comes into view that he slows. It takes him a little while to find the portal in; the hulking hall is obvious once he spots it. 

The doorway opens for him as he approaches—eerie, but convenient; Sam must have cameras installed. He stumbles into the portal, practically falling into the nether. 

The familiar heat hits his skin, and he shudders. It’s been months, but visiting the nether still sets something awhirl in his stomach, still makes his hands itch for a sword or a gapple or  _ something _ , just in case, just in case Dream—

Dream is going to know Tommy entered the nether, he realizes, because Dream is the person he’s going to visit. Tommy swallows back the bile in his throat at the thought. 

_ What if he kills me? _ the voice screams.  _ What if I die? _ Memories of fresh-dug holes, of explosions and towering pillars, memories he never wants to confront again, come crashing back. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to step back through the portal. He just has to check. He needs to know, to see it himself. He  _ has  _ to.

He’s never been inside the Vault, so when he takes his first step into the interior, his knee-jerk reaction is awe. He’s only in the entryway, the front lobby, and he’s already intimidated. He already feels very, very small. That, he’s sure, is intentional.

He looks around the room, unsure of where to go.

“Uh…” he says. “Hello?”

An intercom crackles to life. “Hello, Tommy,” comes Sam’s voice. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, slumping back against the wall. “Alright, then.”

True to his word, a few minutes later, Sam walks in from one of the many hallways, giving Tommy a quick nod in greeting. He makes for an imposing figure, armored in gold and dual-wielding enchanted tridents. Tommy has never found Sam’s shadowed eyes or odd welding mask intimidating before, but in that moment, already thrumming with nerves, standing in the lobby of Pandora’s Vault, the gaze sends chills down his spine. 

“You’re here to see him,” Sam says. It isn’t a question. 

Tommy nods. 

“Are you sure?” Sam puts his hands on Tommy’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. “You shouldn’t feel any sort of obligation to...”

“I’m sure.” Tommy gulps, clenching his hands into fists and pleading them to stop shaking. 

Sam stares at him for a moment more, then pulls away. “Alright, then.” He bites his lip, nodding again as if to be sure. “Alright. You can follow me.”

Sam leads him down a dark corridor, constructed from polished blackstone and dark basalt. Tommy follows hesitantly at his heels, slipping down the hall as if the slightest noise could send the place toppling down. He doesn’t want to reach the end of the hallway, hopes the shadows stretch on forever. He knows he can turn back at any point, that Sam will gladly walk him right back to the entrance. 

Tommy does not stop walking. Tommy does not turn around. Tommy keeps going. Later, he’ll blame it on the prickling stubbornness that holes up in his chest like a grumpy badger, on spite so powerful it could rival even the strength of Prime, bitter irritation that Tubbo had been trying to keep him out of something interesting. He will not admit to the awful, morbid curiosity that has clamped onto him, vicelike and cold. He will not admit to the sudden, burning  _ need _ he feels: the all-consuming need to  _ know _ , to  _ see _ . 

That need does not stop the veritable iceberg that sinks into his core when the hallway’s end comes into view. It’s an awful, heavy sensation, sliding oily and thick up the back of his throat. He swallows, trying not to retch. 

It really doesn’t look like there’s anything there. Tommy squints at the dead end, trying to make out any sort of mechanism that would open into a cell. 

“Turn around,” Sam says. Tommy does, ignoring the spike of anxiety that comes with facing the wall. 

After a couple of moments, a chorus of pistons fire. Tommy whirls around in time to see the back wall fold open on itself in a display of incredible redstone mastery. He gasps, barely biting back a scream of amazement. 

There’s a small room beyond the vault door, dark and cramped. Against one wall is a speaker, presumably to talk to whoever’s inside without actually opening the cell in any way. Tommy can already feel his claustrophobia spike just looking at the room from the hallway; he can only imagine what it’s like inside the actual cell.

“Come in,” Sam says. 

Tommy braces himself and steps over the threshold. The door closes behind him, squealing as moving parts grind against each other. He takes a deep breath.

Sam flicks a lever on the wall next to the intercom. A little window opens in the wall, closed off with iron bars. All of the courage Tommy’s built up in the last 20 minutes dissolves in an instant. He presses himself back against the wall. He’s shaking.

“You don’t have to do this,” whispers Sam. 

Tommy grits his teeth, pushes off the wall, and approaches the window. 

Tubbo, it turns out, had not been lying when he said Dream looked awful. Somehow, he seemed to get even paler when he looked up to see Tommy at the window. Tommy, quite suddenly, suspected neither of them were happy to be there.

“Why,” Dream says, voice wavering, “are you here?”

Tommy’s eyes are locked onto Dream’s face. He’d only seen it once before, when he took the mask off to yell at him in Logstedshire. He looks completely different now. His eyes, before glowing with acidic light, now are flat and dull and empty. He has pupils and irises that are a soft, forest-y color, and he looks human.

That, Tommy can’t comprehend. Dream is a  _ dreamon _ , a powerful creature without understanding or care for human morals and emotion. Dream wants  _ power _ , and to get it, he is willing to lie and manipulate and abuse. Dream is heartless. Dream is ruthless. Dream is cold.

Right now, Dream just looks tired.

Swollen face, puffy eyes, pale, sweaty skin. Bony as fuck, with shadowed eyes. The green bitch swallows, like he’s fighting back nausea.

Pushing past the cognitive dissonance, Tommy says, “You’re an arsehole,” because it feels like a good place to start.

Dream only sighs. “I know,” he says. Tommy frowns, brow furrowing; he’s imagined this scene a hundred unwelcome times in his head. He’d never received that response.

“If you think acting all pathetic and shit is gonna fool me, you’re wrong.” Tommy glares at him. “I ain’t fallin for yo shit no mo,  _ bitch.” _

Dream closes his eyes.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tommy huffs. “Actually, I know what is wrong with you: everything.”

“Tommy…” Dream mumbles. “Are you just here to bully me or something?”

That was a little closer to what Tommy had been expecting from this visit, but not by much. There wasn’t any attitude to his tone. He just sounded resigned.

“Yeah, and what would you do if I was?”

Dream pulls his knees up to his chest. “Just… go. If you’re not here for any real reason, just leave.”

Tommy snorts. Something in him screams at him to listen to Dream, but he kills it with practiced ease. “I hate you, you know.”

“That’s fair.” 

“Like, I really hate you.”

“I know.”

“What if I told you I wish you died?”

“I’d believe you.”

“You’re an awful person.”

Dream doesn’t say anything.

“What, are you sorry?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Tommy curls his lip. “Well, it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I am sorry, Tommy.” Dream spreads his arms wide. “I hate myself for what I did to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. Sometimes I think I am dead. I understand if you never want to see me for the rest of your life. I understand if you want to kill me until I never come back. I am sorry.”

Tommy falls silent. “...do you mean that?”

Dream rests his arms on his knees, burying his face in the fabric of his sleeves. 

“What, is that it?” Tommy says. “That’s all you’ve got?” 

He hugs his knees tighter.

“Oh, sorry, man. Did I hit a soft spot?”

“ _ Tommy. _ ” Dream looks up at him, eyes wide. They’re flickering with glints of fluorescent green. The sight sends a jolt through Tommy’s heart. He stumbles back, blood thrumming hot in his veins. “ _ Leave. Please. _ ”

Pistons scream, pulling open the vault door behind him. Tommy jolts, clacking his teeth together.

“ _ TOMMY! _ ” Tubbo shrieks, skidding into the room. He takes one look at Tommy’s pale, shaking countenance, and grabs him gently by the wrists, pulling him close. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had to see,” Tommy gasps. “I had to know.”

“We are  _ leaving _ ,” Tubbo says, pulling him out of the little room and into the hallway, past a harried-looking Fundy. There’s light and shouting and movement and Sam has a trident out and Tubbo’s grip on his wrist is cold and tight, too tight, and Tubbo and Fundy are in uniform the last time they were in uniform was when-

Tubbo stoops down and flicks a lever, and the vault door closes, plunging the hallway into blessed silence. Tommy exhales, letting all of the little room’s tainted air out of his lungs at once. 

“Come on,” Tubbo says, pulling him down the hallway. “Let’s get you out of here.”

* * *

The vault door slams shut behind Fundy, sinking the little room into muffled shadow. 

Sam doesn’t move, continuing to type madly against a little glowing screen, one hand still on his trident. It’s almost silent; he can hear nothing beyond Sam’s clacking and labored breath, far louder than it should be, coming from within the cell. Fundy stares at Sam, willing the warden to look up, to instruct Fundy somehow. Sam does nothing.

Fundy glances at the window. This is the closest he’s been to seeing his ex in months, and no matter how he might talk the big talk to Tubbo about figuring out what went wrong, fixing the rift in Dream, now that he’s here, he’s scared. He’s trembling, actually. The last time he and Dream were face to face, there was a netherite axe sunk halfway into Fundy’s stomach.

No time to think of that now. He takes a deep breath, clenches his fists, and walks up to the window.

Fundy almost screams when he peers through the bars and Dream is staring directly at him. The man is vibrating, fizzing and glitching where he sits, curled around himself, at the back of his cell. His eyes flicker from dusky grey to fluorescent lime, human to dreamon, faster than Fundy can track them. He seems to be scanning Fundy, gaze harried, unsure where to settle. Finally, they lock onto the tattered fabric of Fundy’s jacket. 

A high-pitched whine builds in Dream’s throat. It rings scratchy and awful against Fundy’s skull. He only has an instant to realize Dream’s eyes have lit up fully before the dreamon is at the window. His jaw snaps open, unhinging. His teeth look razor sharp. Fundy screams, stumbling back.

“ _ You did this to me!”  _ Dream screams, clawing at the bars of the visitor’s window. “ _ You did this!  _ **_It’s your fault I’m stuck like this!_ ** ”

He plants both paws over his ears. Dream’s eyes are glowing a furious, blinding green, tears pouring down his face. Squinting his eyes shut, Fundy gasps for breath, curling in on himself. 

“ **_How could you do this? How-”_ **

The door slams open, and Fundy’s head snaps up. There stands Tubbo, eyes ablaze, book in hand. He’s muttering something, inaudible under the crackling sobs of the dreamon. Sam stands behind him, dual-wielding enchanted tridents.

Tubbo raises his hand, and Dream goes flying with a screech, his grasp ripped from the window frame. There’s a weighty thud. The hall falls cloyingly silent. 

Fundy lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, bracing his hands against his knees to catch his breath. Tubbo stumbles back, leaning against the wall in an attempt to battle post-spell exhaustion. Magic isn’t supposed to be usable for humans without explicit access to it, but Tubbo is the best Fundy’s met at weaseling his way past those constraints. 

Sam strides over to the window, peering through it. Fundy joins him, driven by morbid curiosity.

Dream sits at the back of his cell. He’s pale and limp, and Fundy fights back the aching pain at seeing his ex-fiancé look so small. Green energy is still pouring off him in waves, curling and crackling and dissipating into the air. He shudders with each breath.

“Don’t try that again,” Sam warns. “You attack someone else and I’ll stop allowing visitors. Don’t test me, Dream. You’re lucky I’ve allowed this much.”

Dream ducks his head in a semblance of a nod, and Sam turns to leave, stopping at the door. 

“I trust you two will be fine here on your own until you’re ready to go,” he says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

And he’s gone, the vault door slamming shut behind him. 

“...Dream?” Fundy hedges after no one else says a word. “What did you mean when you said it was my fault?”

The silence buzzes in the space after his question. Probably it’s the security system, or some other redstone contraption hidden in the walls, but Fundy can’t help but feel like it’s the room itself, singing in monotone static. 

Tubbo seems to snap out of some sort of trance, then, and says, “He’s asleep.” He pushes himself off of the wall, giving Fundy a wavery grin. “My spell wore him out.”

“Wore you out too, by the looks of it,” he remarks. 

“Yeah, a little!” Tubbo laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “We should get going.”

“And both go to bed,” Fundy adds, pressing the button to signal Sam to reopen the vault door for them. After a moment, it creaks open, and the two step out. 

“Well, I’d still better have a talk with Tommy,” Tubbo says. They start down the corridor to the exit, Fundy fighting back a yawn. “He’s waiting for me outside.”

“Can’t that wait until morning?” Fundy asks. “It’s late.” 

“I mean, I guess so,” Tubbo says. 

Fundy rests a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Wait,” he says. “Trust me. Having important conversations when everyone’s tired is just asking to get someone’s throat slit. Tommy probably won’t like it, but…” He laughs. “You should probably have breakfast first, too.” 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Tubbo admits.  "I was just... argh, I was so scared when he just _wasn't there_!" He pulls off his hat, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm sure," Fundy says. "You just about jumped out your window to yell at me."

"Sorry about that." Tubbo laughs. "And thanks for your quick thinking. I really just could not have figured out where he'd gone."

“No problem, little guy,” Fundy ruffles his hair, and Tubbo swats him away. “Us hunters have got to stick together, huh?”

Tubbo smiles. "Yeah," he says.

* * *

_ “So it’s like… magic?” she asks, leaning in close to inspect the flame that dances in his hand. _

_ He closes his fist around the fire, snuffing it out. “Yeah,” he says. “Super potent stuff. You should watch your wool.” _

_ They’ve just finished sparring. Both are winded, their practice swords discarded in the grass. _

_ She reflexively pushes back the curls around her head, tying them back with an industrial-strength hair tie. “That’s super cool, Dream,” she says. “I’d imagine it’s pretty practical, too, huh?” _

_ “Yeah…” He shrugs. “It’s kind of nice, I guess.” _

_ “Didn’t you tell me you hated it?” she asks. He flinches. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I just-” _

_ “Nah, it’s fine.” He waves her off. “I do hate it. You’re right.” _

_ She turns away, looking out over the field they sit in. “I figured you’d at least appreciate it,” she says. “You know, since it’s pretty much the only thing that’s kept you alive this long.” _

_ “You could say that.” He sighs, wrapping his arms around his waist. “It does help. I love the way that it feels to have this power. It’s amazing. Invigorating. And it is the only reason I’m alive, the only reason I’ve been able to keep  _ her  _ alive this long. But I hate that I love it. It’s a part of me that’s destructive, that’s so hard to control. And I have to live with it.” _

_ She hums. “Yeah, that does sound difficult,” she says. “I mean, I really don’t know anything about it, but if I can help in any way, just let me know, okay?” _

_ “You’ve already helped so much.” He exhales. “Thanks for agreeing to train me, by the way. You’ve really saved our asses here.” _

_ “Honestly? I know this is going to sound sappy as hell, but you saved me.” She grins at him, rubbing his back. “I was in a funk before I met you two. You gave me a little perspective. I’m glad to help in any way I can.” _

_ He stares at her for a moment. He’s learned not to trust over the years, learned to be wary. But the look on her face is genuine, and he’d already trust this girl with his life.  _

_ He pulls off his mask. _

_ “My eyes,” he says. “They change color. Usually, I’m nice and balanced- how I should be. My eyes are a midtone, like now. Kind of like the color of grass.” _

_ She nods. There’s a serious look on her face, careful and firm.  _

_ “When I’m unbalanced _ — _ when the dreamon or human in me is dominant _ — _ they change. Dark and greyish for human, glowy and neon for dreamon.” He takes a deep breath. “I trust you. If you need to take off my mask at any point, you can. I won’t get mad afterward. Usually you can just ask me, but if things get bad, I might not let you.” _

_ She bows her head. “Thank you, Dream. For trusting me with this.” She takes his hands. “We’ll figure this out, alright?” He grins at her, and she smiles back. “Together.” _

_ “Together,” he says. _


	4. sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I spent the one week I knew I'd have free time to write doing nothing but playing OMORI. Great game, 10/10, would recommend.  
> Chapter warning for drowning!

_ “So it’s like… magic?” she asks, leaning in close to inspect the flame that dances in his hand. _

_ He closes his fist around the fire, snuffing it out. “Yeah,” he says. “Super potent stuff. You should watch your wool.” _

_ They’ve just finished sparring. Both are winded, their practice swords discarded in the grass. _

_ She reflexively pushes back the curls around her head, tying them back with an industrial-strength hair tie. “That’s super cool, Dream,” she says. “I’d imagine it’s pretty practical, too, huh?” _

_ “Yeah…” He shrugs. “It’s kind of nice, I guess.” _

_ “Wait, didn’t you say you hated it?” she asks. He flinches. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I just _ — _ ” _

_ “Nah, it’s fine.” He waves her off. “I do hate it. You’re right.” _

_ She turns away, looking out over the field they sit in. “I figured you’d at least appreciate it,” she says. “You know, since it’s pretty much the only thing that’s kept you alive this long.” _

_ “You could say that.” He sighs, wrapping his arms around his waist. “It does help. I love the way that it feels to have this power. It’s amazing. Invigorating. And it is the only reason I’m alive, the only reason I’ve been able to keep  _ her  _ alive this long. But I hate that I love it. It’s a part of me that’s destructive, that’s so hard to control. And I have to live with it.” _

_ She hums. “Yeah, that does sound difficult,” she says. “I mean, I really don’t know anything about it, but if I can help in any way, just let me know, okay?” _

_ “You’ve already helped so much.” He exhales. “Thanks for agreeing to train me, by the way. You’ve really saved our asses here.” _

_ “Honestly? I know this is going to sound sappy as hell, but you saved me.” She grins at him, rubbing his back. “I was in a funk before I met you two. You gave me a little perspective. I’m glad to help in any way I can.” _

_ He stares at her for a moment. He’s learned not to trust over the years, learned to be wary. But the look on her face is genuine, and he’d already trust this girl with his life.  _

_ He pulls off his mask. _

_ “My eyes,” he says. “They change color. Usually, I’m nice and balanced- how I should be. My eyes are a midtone, like now. Kind of like the color of grass.” _

_ She nods. There’s a serious look on her face, careful and firm.  _

_ “When I’m unbalanced _ — _ when the dreamon or human in me is dominant _ — _ they change. Dark and greyish for human, glowy and neon for dreamon.” He takes a deep breath. “I trust you. If you need to take off my mask at any point, you can. I won’t get mad afterward. Usually you can just ask me, but if things get bad, I might not let you.” _

_ She bows her head. “Thank you, Dream. For trusting me with this.” She takes his hands. “We’ll figure this out, alright?” He grins at her, and she smiles back. “Together.” _

_ “Together,” he says. _

* * *

The late-night visit was a blessing in disguise, Dream finds. 

On the one hand, it was a terrible experience. Dream never wants to feel that way again, never wants to lose control in front of Tommy again, never wants to see terror painted across his face in such visceral, excruciating detail as he did. He (his humanity, at least, what with his dreamon half being completely inaccessible) hardly remembers anything from when he lost control beyond that moment, and it’s excruciating. What little trust he’s built in himself has been shattered in a single night, and the shards are stuck sharp and bloody in the walls of his heart. 

On the other hand, repression becomes incredibly easy in the days that follow. 

He’s sure it was Tubbo’s spell. The command had practically drained the fight out of him, and days later, it’s like there’s a hole in the bottom of his energy supply, draining the crackling anxiety right out of him. It’s glorious. No matter how exhausted it leaves him, he’s got clarity and peace the likes of which he hasn’t seen in weeks, and he’s thankful to Tubbo for that much. Perhaps he should ask for him to do it again, if Tubbo ever visits. 

Even the clarity has downsides, though. His mind likes to use it to replay the moment Tommy stumbled away from him, horrified, on loop. By the time it wears off, he’s almost glad to go back to the screaming. It drowns out everything else.

* * *

Tubbo wakes to a crick in his neck, sunlight streaming through his window, and distant screaming.

He jolts upright, tipping backward in his chair and teetering on two legs. Righting himself with a gasp, he strains to pick up the sounds of whatever’s going on outside. 

“ _ —you, bitch! _ ” he catches. It’s Tommy, it has to be. Tubbo pushes his chair away and leans over his desk, straining to peer out the window at the boardwalk below.

New New L’manberg’s plaza is shattering, oak wood splintering under a cluster of blood vines’ vice like grasp. They’ve sprung from beneath a stairwell and unraveled across the square. Bad is perched atop an unfurling blossom, clouded by pollen and a flurry of leaves, laughing with raucous glee. Tubbo feels his stomach plummet, locking his knees in their trembling place: Tommy, balanced on one of the fence posts, has levelled a sword in Bad’s direction.

“ _ Tommy, you  _ idiot!” Sapnap, muffled by layers of glass and wood, is standing on the porch of Quackity’s L’manberg house. The only reason he hasn’t rushed forward to Tommy’s side, the numb part of Tubbo suspects, is the hand Karl’s clamped onto his shoulder.

_ What the fuck. What the fuck. The Crimson is— is  _ here _? _ Tubbo’s brain is five paces behind, still reeling from the unwelcome sight. 

He has to move, he has to. He knows he has to. He pries his legs from their paralyzed stasis, stumbling over to grab the sword he keeps under his bed.

_ “This is destruction of property, you dickhead!”  _ he can hear Tommy scream as he fumbles to get the blade out of its sheath. “ _ Go barf your pus— fuck, can’t say that—” _

The sword comes free in his hands, and he jumps to his feet. Crashing through his door, he sprints down the stairs. There’s a crunching clatter outside, and a muffled shout. Panic rises in Tubbo’s throat. He lands on the first floor with a thud and skids around the corner, throwing himself against the front door. It’s unlocked and swings open under his weight, and Tubbo stumbles onto the porch. 

Tommy’s sword is locked against Bad’s. Bad is grinning wide, sharp, pointed. The vines are creeping, insidious, flashing towards Tommy before he has the chance to notice, knotting around his ankles, yanking him off the boardwalk—

Tubbo screams, “ _ Tommy! _ ”

Tommy flies through the air with a shriek. Tubbo’s eyes lock onto him, flung like a doll through the air. He lands in the water with a splash. Tubbo drops his sword on the deck with a clatter and sprints to the railing, vaulting over and plunging into the lake.

For a moment, the chill consumes him, blinding and sharp. The water soaks him through in an instant, a slap of frothing pressure. He blinks past it, ignoring the raw ache in his eyes and squinting into the darkness. 

Catching the barest glimpse of what must be Tommy’s silhouetted form against the distant light of sea pickles, Tubbo squints his eyes shut claws his way deeper, plunging down, down, the pressure building— _fuck fuck shit fuck_ he bites back the writhing, full-bodied fear that scrabbles against his windpipe and swims swims swims—

Fingers latch around his own. Tubbo chokes back a gasp. Tommy’s in front of him, grasp tight and eyes wide, glinting. Tubbo wraps an arm around his shoulders as his lungs start to ache. Kicking for the surface, ignoring the painful strain of his muscles, he squints at the distant light. Tommy kicks with him; it’s a loose movement, his heels thwacking weakly against Tubbo’s shins.

Tubbo’s lungs are kindling, raw and dry. He swallows, strains, lets air trickle out through his nose, watches the bubbles trickle and dance towards the shafts of muted, murky sunlight.  _ Keep going _ . He presses forward.  _ Keep going _ . There’s a heavy weight bearing against his skull.  _ Keep going. Keep going. Keep going… _

Just as Tubbo can feel his eyes slipping shut, something clamps around his waist. A spike of panic shoots from his toes to his gut. He chokes in a breath.

Water slams into his gut, a massive and searing weight that scorches his lungs with paradoxical fire. Tubbo chokes as crimson and vermillion, watery and bright, swim past his face. His throat convulses and everything is red and black and blue and spiraling and heavy and dark and he’s choking, he’s dying, he can’t  _ breathe _ —

—his head breaks the surface. Light floods his vision, and he gags, stomach heaving to get the water out. Someone sets him on his side, rubbing circles on his back. He gasps in breath after breath, hacking out remnants of the lake’s grasp. The swirling in his vision slows. His eyes focus; there’s a blade of grass sticking up above the others just inches to his face. Someone’s speaking.

“Oh, Prime, Tubbo.” The sound is muffled and vague. “Can you hear me?”

Heaving in another shuddering breath, he nods, pushing himself up. He’s met by a sopping Karl’s concerned face, who grabs his arms and pulls him the rest of the way upright. He can make out the shadowy form of New New L’manberg behind him. They must be on the shore nearby.

“Where’s Tommy?” Tubbo winces at the gravelly sound of his voice. 

Karl nods to his right, and Tubbo looks. Quackity is there, supporting a sheepish-looking Tommy. He grins in Tubbo’s direction. 

“Hey, man,” he says. “Thanks for—ah, jumping in after—”

“Tommy, you’re an idiot.” Tubbo shoots him a flat stare. “Don’t do that again or I will  _ personally _ ensure that you drown.” 

Quackity laughs nervously. “Okay, okay… Hey, look! You’re both safe! Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah…” Tubbo sighs, leaning back against the grass and staring up at the clouds. His every inch is lined with exhaustion; he just wants to sleep. “Thank you guys.”

“Oh, really, it’s no problem.” Karl chuckles. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“ _ Shit! _ ”

Tubbo sits upright. Tommy is staring at him with wild eyes. 

“The fucking egg, man!” he says, and Tubbo gasps. He stumbles to his feet. Now that his hearing is sharpening again, he can hear what sounds like distant shouting. 

“Wait, wait!” Karl stops him with a hand on his arm, pushing him back down. It takes laughably little force to send Tubbo back to sitting on the grass. “Sapnap’s got it handled. You should—”

“On his  _ own _ ?” Tommy bounces on his toes. “ _ Bullshit _ . We need to go help him.” 

“He’s got a point,” Quackity says. “We should really make sure he’s okay.” 

“Okay,” Karl relents. “But no fighting for you two.”

“ _ What _ ?” Tubbo stands, even if just to prove that he can. “What do you mean?” 

“You just almost drowned!” he says. “You need rest. Here, let me help you.” Karl wraps an arm around Tubbo’s shoulders, steadying him on his feet. His vision dips once more before steadying, and he sighs. 

“They’re right, Tommy,” Tubbo says, willing his still-trembling fingers to still. “At least, I’ve got to sit this one out.”

“What?  _ No! _ You’re gonna let a little water stop you?” Tommy unsheathes his sword, brandishing it high.

“Tommy…” Tubbo gives him a flat stare. “You’re shaking.”

Tommy pauses with a chuckle, bringing his arm down. “Okay, so maybe I am a little cold…”

“Okay, you know what?” Quackity says. “Why don’t you two stay here, and Karl and I will go and give Sapnap a hand?” 

“Good idea!” Karl settles Tubbo back onto the ground, and Quackity presses on Tommy’s shoulders until he sits next to Tubbo. “We’ll be right back.” He shoots them some finger guns, grinning awkwardly, and then whirls around, sprinting toward the ramp to L’manberg’s boardwalk, Quackity following behind. 

As soon as they’re gone, Tommy leans his head onto Tubbo’s shoulder. He lets out a shuddering sigh, and Tubbo rests his hand on his back, hoping the weight is comforting. 

“They’ll take care of it,” he says. “And then we can go dry off. And maybe sleep.”

* * *

“I know I said I’d visit you yesterday,” Techno says, opening the window. “Sorry. Something came up.”

In truth, Dream hasn’t been keeping track of the days at all. “It’s fine,” he says.

“We killed the egg,” Techno comments out of nowhere. “The possessions started getting bad, so we all got together and dumped soul fire all over it.”

Dream huffs at his flat tone. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Techno sits down. “My job was to ‘protect the arsonists’. Fending off eggheads without hurting them was a little anticlimactic but an interesting challenge, all things considered.”

Dream hums. “...And everyone’s okay?”

“Yup.” Techno sighs. “Pretty sure the egg is dead for good, too.”

“That’s nice,” Dream says.

Techno opens his book. Dream closes his eyes.

It’s become a habit for the pig to stop by every few days or so and sit outside to read. Dream still isn’t sure why he comes, only that he’s thankful for it. As Ghostbur’s visits always leave him strangely melancholic, he likes the time with Techno best, since no one else really visits all that often. It’s taken him a while, but he can look at Techno without freezing up now, too. He sees this as progress.

“Was it awful?” Dream asks after a while spent in silence. “When you were in here, I mean. Did you hate it?”

Techno shrugs. The piglin is tall enough that Dream can see his profile through the window, even when he’s sitting down. “I guess it kinda sucked.” 

“Sorry,” Dream says. “For putting you in here.” 

“Eh.” Technoblade closes his book, turning to face him. “You were at least surprised when I showed up out of nowhere, right?” 

“It was quite the shock…” Dream admits, forcing images of Technoblade’s bared teeth, of blood-stained netherite glinting in the rain, of boots, shimmering with enchantment, slamming down onto his fragmented ribs, out of his mind. 

“I clawed my way out of here with my bare hands,” Technoblade says drily. “Tore through the cell piece by piece.”

Dream snorts. “Sure. Definitely. You somehow killed three Elder Guardians from within this cell, then dug through multiple layers of obsidian in time to come find me. I know Sam let you out. I’m not stupid.”

Techno laughs. “He totally did.”

“Honestly, I always figured he would eventually,” Dream admits. “Really I think there are a lot of things I’ve known for a while but never really admitted to myself.”

“Yeah…” Technoblade grins. “I feel you there.”

“And I’m sorry how rough your capture was.” Dream sighs. “Did Sam help you fix that gash?”

Techno stands, pulling up his shirt to show Dream a nasty scar that rips its way up his torso. “Yup,” he says. “Didn’t expect him to, but he did.”

“That’s nice.” 

“Yeah.” Techno plonks back down onto the floor. “I’m assuming he helped you, too?”

Dream huffs. “He gave me pots. Bandages. A splint.”

“Oh.” Techno frowns. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Dream holds the hem of his tattered hoodie up, letting Technobalde see his scarred torso. “Pretty sure one of my ribs healed a little wrong, though.” 

Techno winces. “That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Dream waves him off. “It’s not like I’ve never had that happen before.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised everything of mine has healed correctly,” Technoblade says. “I spent a lot of time on my own when I was young and somehow still managed to turn up fine.”

Apparently today’s special hell is no filter, because the next sentence that comes out of Dream’s mouth is, “My left leg is still a wreck from that time I got thrown off a cliff when I was seventeen.”

Techno looks up, shocked, apparently, that Dream would tell him something like that. Dream just keeps talking, even as he wills his mouth to  _ shut _ , dammit!

“Yeah, no, some big group of guys I’d pissed off somehow found me and beat me up. One of ‘em threw me off a cliff and I had to walk all the way back to my sister’s house with a broken leg and cracked ribs. Probably a concussion too, I don’t remember.” He curses his rambling mouth, curses his lack of control, curses the acid that simmers below his skin. “I still limp on bad days, but I’ve gotten good at hiding it.”

“I… never noticed that,” Techno says, and Dream could scream. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Oh, holy Prime,” Dream says, burying his head in his hands. “I can’t—I can’t—my mouth just—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Dream!” Techno laughs. “It’s not like I  _ already defeated you _ or anything!”

Dream huffs, mocking irritation, and crosses his arms. They fall back into comfortable silence. Techno re-opens his book. 

“You’re a good fighter, you know,” Dream remarks.

Techno snorts. “Yeah.”

“No, I mean—” Dream huffs. “You destroyed me back… then. It was super impressive.” Then, quieter: “Thank you.”

Techno looks up from his book and glances over his shoulder. “Sorry?”

“I said thanks.” Dream sighs. “I couldn’t get back to myself. Getting my ass beat helped. So thanks.”

Techno nods hesitantly, seeming unsure of how to respond. “...Anytime.”

That elicits a snort out of Dream, which makes Techno chuckle, which makes Dream feel like he’s glowing. Not dreamon glow, happy glow, the glow that fills him up from his core and leaves him tingly and warm. That glow. He doesn’t think he’s felt it since…

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, actually. It’s nice to feel it again, even as he feels guilty for every second he spends smiling.

* * *

If Techno stops by frequently, so does Ghostbur. His visits are short, but he brings blue and his guitar, and it helps. Somehow. Even as the phantom’s very presence turns him half-feral at times, it helps. 

Maybe it’s the music. Music has always helped Dream calm down, helped him balance out. Not that he’s trying to balance out now. But it helps him feel human, at least for a moment. 

Dream can usually tell when a song has been written by Alivebur or Ghostbur. Ghostbur’s songs are soft: light in tone, lilting and haunting, sometimes ponderous and sometimes silly. Lyrics disjointed, melodies simple. Alivebur’s music seems to outline his story: early, elementary compositions filled with humorous words and awkward phrasing are followed by light, celebratory tunes, which serve as a prelude to the blend of moody, artistic tones and poignant satire that makes up most of his works. This, of course, leads into the final group of songs, a sparse sprinkling written during late, restless hours in the ravine. 

The songs from Pogtopia are not often sung. One time, Ghostbur starts on a song about flickering lanterns and flickering life only to cut into fuzzy static halfway through and leave soon after.

It’s an afternoon where the suppression has clouded his judgement beyond recognition that he decides to make an attempt at serious conversation with the ghost. Ghostbur has managed to make it through the entirety of  _ Since I Saw Vienna  _ and started on  _ Your Sister Was Right _ without shorting out, so the present sliver of Dream’s logic figures it might be a good day to at least try to get some answers.

“ _ I thought I couldn’t love anymore _ ,” Ghostbur sings, picking out the chords on his battered guitar. “ _ Turns out I can’t… _ ” He trails off, humming the rest of the line, and Dream takes that as an opportunity. 

“Why did you stay?” he mutters, leaning his head against the wall.

“ _ I use everyone I ever meet _ ,” he continues, ignoring the question. “ _ I can’t find the perfect… _ ” he trails off. “ _ Abuse those I love, while I ostracize the ones who love me _ …” Ghostbur closes his eyes, stumbling over a note.

“Hey.” Dream waves a shaky hand in front of Ghostbur’s face. “Why didn’t you move on?” He may as well stick to his guns. “Why are you still here?”

He really doesn’t know why Ghostbur stayed. Maybe he doesn’t know how awful Dream is. The ghost definitely can’t remember most of the shitty stuff Dream did. He wouldn’t be here, playing the guitar in a  _ prison  _ of all places, when he could be anywhere else, if he did. 

“ _ On the path of least resistance _ ,” Ghostbur sings. “ _ I find myself salting the Earth _ .”

Dream grits his teeth. Ghostbur’s lack of any significant response has let the lyrics echo in his head. Each line feels a bit more pointed, the ghost’s scratchy, soft voice the brightest thing there is. “Ghostbur!” 

“ _ Every time that I miss you, _

_ I feel the way you hurt. _ ”

Dream, giving up, lets his eyes lock onto Ghostbur’s fingers, tracking the way his hand shifts from chord to chord. 

“ _ And I don't deserve you _

_ You deserve the world _

_ Though it feels like we were built… _ ” He trails off into more humming, and Dream frowns, picking up the melody. 

“ _ From the same dirt. _ ”

Ghostbur looks over with a surprised smile, playing with renewed energy. Dream knows his voice is awful and rough, probably scratchy beyond belief from his time in the Vault, so Ghostbur must just be excited to have a partner. 

“ _ I hate to say it, but your sister was right _ ,” Dream sings. “ _ Don't trust English boys with far too much free time _ .” 

“ _ And I hate to say it _ ,” Ghostbur takes over. “ _ But your sister was right. I'm nothing but a problem, leave you crying overnight _ .”

“ _ And I hate to say it, but your sister was right.” _ Tears are prickling at the corners of Dream’s eyes, the words sending fractures through the film of stability over his heart.  _ “I can't focus on the future, only my short sight. _ ”

“ _ I hate to say it, _ ” Ghostbur sings, “ _ but your sister was right. _ ”

“ _ I’m a wanker, _ ” finishes Dream, “ _ complete wanker.  _ A fucking waste of time.” He’s whispering by the time he reaches the end of the line, letting the melody fall through. A tear rolls down his cheek. He breathes in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes and letting the rest fall. He curls tighter around himself.

Then, Ghostbur’s hands are on his, pulling them away from his sides and pressing blue, small and soft, into them. 

“Calm yourself,” he whispers as cloudy slate blooms within it, thick swirls spreading like dye in water. The color fills the blue quickly, dribbling onto the floor of Dream’s cell. 

“Thanks, Ghostbur,” Dream says, voice stilted through his snot-filled nose. He wipes at his face. “...Thank you.”

Ghostbur only smiles, taking the blue back. He wraps his arm around Dream’s shoulders, settling in beside him. 

“This is why I stayed, Dream!” he whispers after a moment spent in silence. “It was so I could spend more time with you! Isn’t that cool? Our friendship kept me here!” He hums. “I would say we’re like Lads On Tour 2.0, but we’re a little too close to L’manberg to be properly on tour.”

Dream blinks, almost choking on his breath. Ghostbur seems to notice, his smile turning concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I just—” He blinks hard, ignoring the wetness in his eyes. “You stayed for  _ me _ ?”

“Of course!” Ghostbur ruffles his hair, and he winces. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“I was a horrible person, Ghostbur,” he whispers.

“So was Alivebur,” Ghostbur says. “Really, I should be asking why you even want  _ me  _ here. Everyone else seems to think I  _ am _ Alivebur, and they all hated him.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Dream says. “We’re both just the sad ghosts of hated people.”

“Ghosts?” Ghostbur tilts his head. “But you aren’t dead, Dream.”

Dream laughs.

* * *

_ It’s a lazy afternoon, and she’s marvelling at the ball of energy he tosses from hand to hand.  _

_ They’re sitting in the center of a garden. It’s a little corralled-off thing, his favorite feature of her first real base. She finished building it a few days ago and called him over to see. He dropped a tournament to be here, but it was worth it to see the grin on her face.  _

_ He’s buzzing with pride—literally, having summoned the little prickles of lighting to get some of the antsy electricity out of his limbs. It may be awkwardly terraformed and close enough to the chicken coop to be not at all zen, but it’s the best damn garden he’s ever seen.  _

_ “How can you do that?” she asks, reaching out a tentative figure to touch the magic.  _

_ He snatches his hand back, energy dissipating. “Don’t,” he says. “It’ll zap you.”  _

_ “No, but how?” Pulling both feet up onto the bench, she turns to face him. _

_ “You can’t,” he says, ruffling her hair. The shorter strands stick straight up with static, and she scowls. “It’s impossible, child.” _

_ “Oh, fuck off,” she snaps, and he snorts, not expecting the expletive.  _

_ “What?” he says. “Where’d you learn that?” _

_ “You, you dingus,” she says. “Now teach me.” _

_ “I can’t!” He holds up his hands. “You aren’t a transmuted dreamon! You’re barely not human!” _

_ She snarls at him, snapping her fingers in defiance. A flickery green spark flares between her fingers. She huffs, trying again, only to lesser results.  _

_ “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with this,” he says. _

_ “Well, of course you don’t, you can do it without even trying.” She gives him the side-eye.  _

_ “No, really.” He shifts his mask upwards. It’s new; he’s still trying to find the right way to wear it so that it doesn’t constantly slide down his face. “Why do you want to be able to use dreamon magic so much?” _

_ “Are you kidding?” She snaps again. Nothing happens. “It’s like, the coolest thing in the world.” _

_ “No, it’s not.” He snorts. “I should take you to see the Ender Dragon sometime.” _

_ “Seriously?” Giving up on snapping, she leans back in her seat, throwing her head back. “I’d die, you fool. Mom will be in touch.” _

_ “Yeah, right,” he says.  _

_ “Okay, fine. Aunt Puffy would be in touch.”  _

_ “We haven’t seen Aunt Puffy in months!” _

_ “She’d  _ know _ , Dream!” she says, leaning in close. “You know she’d find out somehow, and then you’d be in trouble for getting your sister killed. No dessert for a month.” _

_ “It’s not like you’d die with me there anyway _ — _ ” _

_ “Exactly! It’s your fancy dreamon powers!” _

_ “No, I’m just better than you.” He pokes her in the side, and she squeals, slapping his hand away and glaring at him.  _

_ “No, you’re an asshole.” She sighs dramatically. “An asshole, drunk on the power he was handed at birth…” _

_ “Shut  _ up _ ,” he laughs.  _

_ “Seriously.” She sits up. “It’s so unfair. Teach me, please.” _

_ “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on this.” He looks up at the sky, watching the clouds drift. “It seems pretty cool, sure, but it sucks sometimes.” With a sigh, he folds his hands behind his head. “Most of the time, actually.” _

_ “What do you mean?” she asks. “What does that mean?” _

_ “It’s confusing,” he admits. “I don’t really understand myself a lot. And I’m kind of unstable. Like, I’m balanced now, but if something happened, I could just…” He throws his hands into the air as if to mime some vague explosion. “Snap.” _

_ “Oh,” she says. _

_ “Don’t worry, though,” he says, “I won’t; I’ve got it under control,” and that’s the end of that. _

_ The garden folds in on itself, like a storybook reaching its last page. Everything is silent and muted, muffled and dark.  _

_ “You liar,” she whispers into the night. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *neatly avoids writing a fight scene* *neatly avoids writing a fight scene* *neatly avoids wr


	5. worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: one of the sections in this chapter is intentionally disjointed and delirious.

“We should talk to Sapnap,” Fundy says one day, popping a berry into his mouth. 

He and Tubbo are sitting in Tubbo’s now-completed garden, having a quick lunch. Tommy is out “fishing” with Phil, and Fundy seized the chance to talk with Tubbo alone. 

“Hm.” Tubbo bites his lip, swirling the water in his cup. “Why do you say that?”

“Think about it, Tubbo!” Fundy leans forward. “He knows Dream better than anyone else on the server. Dream’s probably told him things, too. If anyone, he’ll know what to do.”

“Fundy, I don’t think—” Tubbo gulps, staring down into his water. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Why not?” Fundy asks. “He’s one of us, Tubbo! A fellow Dreamon Hunter! Surely we need as many people as we can get, right?”

“Fundy, you know—” Tubbo hesitates. “You know Dream and Sapnap haven’t exactly been on the  _ best  _ of terms since the dethronement…”

Fundy throws his hands in the air. “Like  _ anyone’s  _ on good terms with Dream right now!” he says. “You came to me about this despite knowing how touchy I was over all of it! Why is Sapnap any different?”

“Why is Sapnap different?” Tubbo huffs. “Sapnap murders pets for fun. Fundy, I’m pretty sure that man has  _ anger issues _ . Him blowing up at Dream is the last thing we need.”

“Okay, so maybe we don’t take him with us to the Vault,” Fundy stuffs another berry in his mouth. “Still, he’s got to have some good information!”

“And who’s to say he doesn’t just come with us anyway?” Tubbo sighs, downing the rest of his water. “I don’t have anything against him, but I feel like he’d be more trouble than he’s worth.”

“...I guess you have a point,” Fundy concedes. “Still, keep it in mind, okay? If we hit a dead end he might be worth talking to.”

“Okay, Fundy,” Tubbo says. “I will.”

* * *

_ What time is it?  _ something asks, only just audible over the metallic screeching. He can’t see the clock from where he sits. He laughs it’s choppy and garbled and some of that might just be his ears. his ears are all messed up.

“I’m cold,” he says. That’s odd. It’s all odd. He's hot, too, like fire.

Fire was bad. Fire was wrecked fruit trees and ruined houses and shattered campsites. Fire was Sapnap, too. Sapnap liked fire. Sapnap liked killing pets

pets like Spir _ it was my horse _ — _ died  _ ages  _ ago! I care about your discs, 'cause that's what gives me power over you, and your friends, and _ Obsidian isn’t a very nice block, he decides. It looks kind of like dark cobblestone, and that tower really  _ was  _ ugly…

Whimpering, he remembers the pain, the ice cold breath of the water underneath the railway. That had hurt a lot. Did it always hurt that much to die?

He could ask Ghostbur. 

He wishes he could see the sky. It’s a nice blue

color, he knows. George liked it, also, George didn’t like it when he had to take the crown off. Why did George have to take the crown off again?

The screeching is loud again and he floats in it it’s awful and grating and everything and.

there’s someone outside. He giggles; their voice is all scrat **c** hy and weird over the intercom. 

“Sam,” he says, because he knows Sam can hear everything in here, “why didn't we install better microphones? These ones are all…”

They still haven’t left. usually people don’t visit on floaty days?

Floaty like clouds. He still can’t couldn’t see the 

sky. He wants to see the 

sky, but he knows he can’t leave or everyone would die. He tucked his hands and feet in close, pushing down the screaming that threatened to wash over his mind again. Close, close, close, safer for everyone. 

He laughs. Like riding in a minecart!

That minecart had been really painful, and the ocean was cold. It hurt a lot. Did it always hurt that much to

Dream is pretty sure he’s dead right now, even though he doesn’t remember anything else hurting the way the minecart had. 

Maybe sometimes dying hurt in other ways!

* * *

Phil decides to visit the Vault one day because Techno keeps bringing it up. 

“I think you should go at least once.” the warrior says over lunch. “I think you could help him.” 

“Didn’t he, like—” Phil pauses to pop a slice of carrot in his mouth—“totally flip out at someone recently?” 

“Yeah, but…” Techno waves his fork around. “That was  _ Tommy _ . Of course he flipped out at  _ Tommy _ , he’s an idiot. Probably asked for it.”

“And how would I be any help?”

Techno stares at him, considering. Phil knows he must look like a wreck: this visit to L’manberg has been his first chance to clean up in weeks, and lunch with Technoblade always takes priority over a shower. 

“I can feel it,” Techno says finally, huffing afterwards like he knows it’s a weak answer.

“Alright,” Phil says anyway. “I’ll give it a shot.”

That’s how he finds himself standing awkwardly outside the highest security prison cell in history, as far as he’s concerned. He hasn’t said anything over the intercom, hasn’t opened the visitor’s window, hasn’t done anything, actually. Nothing beyond breathing deep and slow, and wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. No matter what his sons may believe, he hasn’t survived this long by being fearless. 

Taking one last breath, he approaches the intercom and presses down the button. The microphone crackles to life.

“Dream?” he says. “Hey. It’s… it’s me.”

Silence. 

“I’m going to open the window now, okay?” 

There’s no response, so Phil turns off the intercom, letting out a shaky sigh.  _ Alright _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s okay. It’s just Dream. You know Dream. _

Does he? 

Phil pulls the lever, and the window creaks open. 

Dream sits at the back of his small cell. He’s still, unmoving, and pale, and for a moment, Phil thinks he might be dead. Then, he lifts his head, staring up at Phil with tired eyes, and he realizes why Techno sent him. Phil has seen that brokenness before, lodged deep in the heart of many a valued companion. He saw it in Technoblade once and spent a month afterward convincing him that he was more than a weapon, more than a tool. 

Phil doesn’t know if he can help Dream. He doesn’t even know if he should help the man who had caused this world so much pain. But that look is all too familiar, too painful to see on his young face. Prime dammit, Philza is going to try. 

“Hello, Dream,” Phil says. Dream blinks at him. “How’re you doing?”

Dream huffs, leaning his head against the wall behind him. 

“Just thought I’d drop by, see how you were,” he continues. “Techno told me you might be in need of some company.”

Dream shrugs, one-shouldered. 

“Are you well-provided for here?” Phil figures it’s as good a place to start as any.

He sighs. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is raspy and weak, like he’s been screaming.

“That’s good,” Phil says. “Who all has been visiting?”

“Techno,” Dream says. “Ghostbur. Tubbo’s been by a few times.” 

Phil hums. “Would you like me to be quiet? Or should we keep talking?”

Dream wraps his arms tighter around himself. “Keep going,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Okay,” Phil says.  _ Okay. I can do that. _

“You know, Niki’s having a sale this week. She’s finally figured out how to make a good wildberry tart. She says she’d been struggling with that recipe for a while. She’s so excited to let everyone try them, they’re 50% off.” Phil laughs. “I’ve already had like, six. I could bring you some the next time I visit. They’re very good.” 

Phil leans against the frame of the window, closing his eyes. “Karl bought twenty five yesterday and ate them  _ all _ . I haven’t seen him since.” He chuckles. “Probably thinks just because he’s got an extra life left he’s safe to waste it on a heart attack.

“I’ll be in town for a while. Normally I’d probably be out of here in a few days. You probably know how much trouble I have staying put, but Techno has a big-ass project he’s working on. I’m stayin’ here to make sure he doesn’t run himself into the ground. Also, Tommy asked me to stay.” He sighs. “I can’t say no to him. Not after last time.” 

Dream’s breath stutters, and Phil winces, realizing that might not have been the best direction to take the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Dream says before Phil can get a word in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for what I did to your son, I’m sorry for what I—” His voice cracks. “I lost control, I’m sorry—”

“Dream!” Phil reaches a hand through the bars—probably ill-advised, but Phil isn’t thinking in the moment. “It’s okay, it’s okay, breathe—”

Dream takes a deep breath, and lets it out, and Phil sighs, relaxing. 

“Talk to me,” he says. 

Dream hunches in on himself.

“It’s all gone,” he whispers. “I’ve... wrecked it. I’ve destroyed it. It’s all gone.” Blood wells where his fingernails dig into his arms; Phil is fairly sure his nails weren’t so sharp before. A tear rolls down his face. “The world I made is gone.”

“It’s not gone,” Phil says, and oh, how he hates this moment’s familiar taste, the way the air sits heavy and cold, the muffled quiet stony and complete. He hates how he recognizes the words from his own mouth, recognizes the form of a broken tyrant in front of him, a villain who only wishes for something different, something impossible. “It’s still here.”

“I loved them, Phil,” he whispers. “I brought them here because I loved them. I made this world because I loved them. I loved them, and I’ve hurt them and broken them and killed them and—” he stops with a sob. 

“We are hurt,” Phil admits. “Everyone is angry, scared, wounded. Some of us are dead. But we’re still  _ here _ , Dream. Mostly alive. We’re rebuilding. The Community House still stands, the lake reef is full of life…”

“Do they hate me?”

Phil closes his eyes. “...Yes. Some of them. Most of them, probably.”

Dream releases a shuddery breath. It’s probably the answer he was expecting. Still, it must hurt to hear. 

“Do you?” he asks. 

Phil pauses. He looks up at the ceiling, unforgiving blackstone speckled with bedrock. 

“...You did some bad things, Dream,” he says. “Yeah… you did some awful, awful things.” He takes a deep breath, letting the silence stew. Dream shifts uneasily beside him, pressing himself closer to the wall. 

“You know what?” he says finally. “You remind me of my son.”

Dream looks up at that, staring at him with dull eyes. “Wilbur.” His voice is nothing more than a murmur.

Phil’s smile is vacant. “If there's anything I regret most, it’s not noticing what was going on with him sooner,” he says. “I trusted my boys. Didn’t want to be overbearing.” He laughs a humorless laugh. “I thought that if I gave them space they’d tell me when stuff like that happened.

“In November, Wilbur blew his home to pieces, then asked me to kill him. I did. He told me he thought L’manberg was gone. He thought it had already been destroyed, failed to see the beating heart still within it.” Philza sighs, turning to look at Dream. “I don’t hate Wilbur. I don’t hate you. I wish you would have done things differently, but I’m sure you wish that, too.” 

Dream stares up at him, shocked, and Phil feels his heart break a little more for yet another lost soul. 

“You don’t?” he whispers.

Phil watches him sit there, shaking to pieces, and wishes more than anything he could give the man a hug. “I don’t,” he says. 

And, standing in the depths of a Vault strong enough to hold a dreamon, he knows he makes one of them.

* * *

If anything, Tubbo is surprised Sapnap hadn’t gotten involved sooner. That doesn’t help the sickened twang in his stomach when he walks by the old hunters’ camp one day to see Fundy and Sapnap sitting by the bonfire pit, in uniform. Talking. Tubbo gulps.

“Hey, guys!” He slings off his pack, walking over. The two fall silent at his greeting. Somehow, Sapnap looks just as ill as Tubbo feels.

Fundy waves. “Hey, Tubbo,” he says, ears flattening slightly. “I was just…” He motions in Sapnap’s direction. “Filling him in. You know, since he’s a fellow hunter and all.”

“I knew it!” Sapnap blurts before Tubbo can get a word in. “I knew there was something missing! I  _ know  _ Dream. Everyone kept telling me I just thought I did, that I didn’t actually, but I  _ know _ him. Something wasn’t right.”

Tubbo bites back a sigh. There’s no use complaining now. “Welcome back to the team, then, Sapnap,” he says.

“I’m going to help you figure this out,” Sapnap vows, gaze narrowing as he stares into Tubbo’s eyes. “I’m going to help you solve this. And if I’ve been wrong about Dream all along, then so be it. But if I find out someone else did this to him, broke him in half—” here, he grins, a joyless, bloodthirsty thing—“I will track them down. I will  _ end  _ them. And I will hurl their shattered body into the  _ fucking  _ sea.”

Tubbo stares into his eyes and remembers the cold, piercing pain of Sapnap’s blade sinking into his back. Remembers polished blackstone fading out of view, remembers empty chests and panicked screaming and victorious laughter and what it felt like to die. 

Hoping to Prime he can pull this off, Tubbo smiles. “Thank you.”

* * *

True to his word, the next time Phil visits, he brings wildberry tarts. Three fresh tarts, along with an assortment of other baked goods, are passed through the bars of the visitor’s window in one of Niki’s takeout bags. Niki, when she heard who it was for, smiled softly and drew a little smile on the bag in blue pen. Phil is mostly just grateful Sam let him through with it. The duration of the warden’s inspection had been nerve-wracking; Phil knew Dream was probably looking forward to a taste of something familiar and didn’t want to let him down. 

“Thank you,” Dream says when he opens the bag. Phil pretends not to notice the tears in his eyes. 

“Of course,” he says. 

They sit in silence for a while, Dream downing the treats. Phil knows it’s raining outside, but the storm is inaudible this deep in the Vault. Spring on the SMP has brought repeated downpours, filling the half-wrecked world with flourishing new life. Saplings, vines, and hardy grasses are springing up amid the collapsed corpses of buildings. Phil thinks it’s beautiful. Ranboo, he knows, is thoroughly fed up with it, between having to hide from the rain every few days and having to uproot half-grown trees every time the team wanted to rebuild something. 

Building projects had been put on hold recently, though, which reminds him: “Have you heard about the egg?”

Dream takes a moment before answering. “Techno told me you killed it,” he says. 

“We thought we did,” Phil says. 

“Oh.” Dream frowns, cramming half a croissant into his mouth. “So it’s back?”

“Yup.” Phil exhales. “We thought we were fine until Quackity came back from checking it with his eyes all red and shit.” It hadn’t been a pleasant sight; the man stumbled into L’manberg already muttering under his breath about the Crimson. “We don’t know how to get rid of it. Fundy and I have been running some tests, doing what we can, but we haven’t come up with anything yet.” He yawns. “I should probably see if I can get Tubbo involved. Maybe Tommy. Those kids are smart.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Dream says. “You always do.”

“I don’t know about this one, Dream,” Phil replies. “I don’t know about this one. We might need something a little more potent than some half-assed research and a little soul fire.”

They settle back into silence. Phil gets the sense Dream doesn’t want to talk. He’s probably caught onto what Phil was edging towards, because his lack of response is almost aggressive. Phil supposes that’s fair. He’s okay with the quiet anyway, following the tiles on the ceiling with his eyes and taking the moment to let his thoughts simmer.

“Where is Captain Puffy?” Dream asks out of nowhere, startling Phil. 

“She went off-world, didn’t she?” Phil traces the floor pattern underneath him. “Yeah, pretty sure she left early February.”

“...Oh.” Dream shifts, fabric rustling. “How long ago was that?”

“It’s mid-April,” Phil says, “so, about two months.”

“Did she say why she was leaving?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”

Phil doesn’t know much about Dream and Puffy’s relationship beyond the fact that he had apparently once spent an entire day following her around like a duckling. That image does not at all line up with Phil’s image of Dream and thus is a rather confusing one. Clearly, he’s missing some details. 

Dream sighs. “Do you know who she might have told?”

“No idea, Dream,” Phil says, then reconsiders. “Maybe Niki. I heard those two were dating or something. You want me to ask her?”

“No,” Dream says quickly. “No, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” Phil twists his old wedding band absentmindedly. “I literally see her, like, every day.” He laughs. “I can’t stop getting breakfast at her bakery, for some reason. I guess the food is just too good. It wouldn’t be any trouble to just ask.”

Dream sighs. “...Okay,” he says. “Okay. Yes, please.”

“You want more pastries, too?” Phil peeks through the window to see the bag emptied, nothing left but crumbs. Dream nods, and Phil laughs. “Sure thing.”

* * *

Tubbo stands outside Pandora’s Vault, alone. His notebook, full of half-tested commands and harried paragraphs, is tucked under his coat to protect it from the rain that slashes down from the sky. The day is stained in grey, uncharacteristic cold clamped vice-like around the world. It’s a slushy, foggy mess, and everyone is tucked away inside. Tubbo trusts he won’t be seen. 

Taking one last look around, he steps through the entry portal. He has to bite back nausea as he stumbles into the dry heat of the Nether, the environment a startling contrast to the overworld’s permeating chill. For a moment, he basks. His jacket is already dry; the fiery dimension is a welcome respite from an otherwise overwhelming sogginess.

Bracing himself, he steps back through. Purple swallows him, and he steps into the dark interior of the Vault. His fingers have already gone numb and tingly, dripping with shadowy particles of mining fatigue. Tubbo envies the guardians’ natural capacity for magic. He’s had to find his own workarounds, make his own ways to access the code at every world’s core. 

There are a lot of commands, a lot of ways to manipulate one’s surroundings, all of which are supposedly only available to operators. On bigger servers, however, the admins often let certain spells slip through the cracks. In that case, even non-operators can perform some magic if they know what they’re doing. Not many do, but Tubbo has always been an expert at exploiting loopholes.

Clutching his notebook with both hands, Tubbo makes his way towards Dream’s cell, waving to the entryway’s security cameras as he passes.

It’s a long walk, but he knows the way. Soon enough, he stands before Dream’s cell, Sam closing the door behind him. He opens his notebook. It doesn’t take long for him to find the command to disable microphones, and he mutters it under his breath. He takes a deep breath. Then, with trembling hands, he reaches out and slides the window open. 

“Dream,” he says. The dreamon looks up, sees him there, then lets his head fall once more.

“Hello, Tubbo,” he mutters. 

“What do you know, Dream?” he asks. No reason to dawdle. He might as well get straight to the point

“What do you mean?” 

“What do you remember?” Tubbo says. “I know you’ve realized you were off-balance. That’s why it all happened. I’ve seen you suppress yourself. What else do you know?”

Dream snorts. “Why should I tell you anything?” He looks up. Momentarily, his eyes shimmer with fluorescent light, before the glint is snuffed out. 

“I—” Tubbo gulps. “I’ve got spells. Commands,” he says. “I’m not afraid to use one on you.” 

“Yeah, right.” He grins. “You don’t have the power to do that. This is my world and you’re not an operator.” 

“It’s not too hard to find a work around.” That’s a lie: it took him multiple all-nighters to find the few spells he plans to use today. Tubbo flips to a different page of the notebook and begins to read. 

Dream laughs, voice wavery. “What are you—” He cuts off with a choked sound as Tubbo finishes reciting the command.

“Tell me, Dream,” Tubbo says, staring down at him. “What do you know?”

Dream clamps his hands over his mouth, but the words come anyway. 

“I’ve been off balance before.” The words are drawn from his lips in a choked whisper. “Especially when I was younger. There was a time when I stopped trying so hard to keep myself under control and started to spiral. My sister snapped me out of it.” 

His eyes widen, horrified, as he realizes he can’t stop talking. 

“I was fine for a while after that, until Wilbur started L’manberg. I felt like he was challenging my power, and my more aggressive side started to show a little. Sapnap—” 

Dream gulps. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. Tubbo grits his teeth.  _ I have to do this _ . 

“Sapnap helped, after the war. He’s known about— about  _ me  _ since before I made this world, so he kept me on track. It wasn’t until after the election that things got really bad. My humanity was buried completely until Techno beat the shit out of me and I had some time alone to think.” 

“Anything else?” Tubbo prompts. “Do you know what it was that changed?”

“Changed?” 

“Why did you relapse?” Tubbo presses, brow furrowing.

“I mean, I assumed it was just that I…” he inhales, as if to brace himself, “still felt slighted after L’manberg, and wanted more power, and let go of myself again. I mean, there’s nothing else that could have—” He gasps, his eyes going wide. “The ritual?  _ No, _ no way. Did you—”

“I’m sorry, Dream,” Tubbo says, finding the last spell in his notebook and reciting it. 

Each word is heavy against his tongue, pressing with stinging weight against his teeth. He ignores the choked sounds coming from the cell, focusing on the swimming characters on his notebook page. Never mind the fact that he has it all memorized. 

As soon as he finishes talking, Dream goes limp, slumping against the wall. 

Tubbo sighs, stumbling back. Every limb is shaking. He thinks he might need a nap or three when he gets back home. The world is not very happy with him right now; he can feel its resistance dragging him down. 

As he makes his way out of the Vault, he almost feels as though he could laugh, head filled with vertigo. The weight of what he’s just done has yet to hit him, and mostly, he’s just relieved.  _ It’s okay _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s fine. _

Memory spells are actually quite easy, all things considered. For a server to individually keep track of and protect the code of each person who enters at any point is almost impossible. Even without operator status, it isn’t difficult, with a few well-placed words, to reach in and snip something out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
